The Song of Seven Sorrows
by PeregrineTook
Summary: "Kvothe had gone looking for his heart's desire. He had to trick a demon to get it. But once it rested in his hand, he was forced to fight an angel to keep it." Day 3 of the Kingkiller Chronicle (6-chapter story arc, complete).
1. White Lies

_Hello! Have a story (and please, please comment if you like it ... it took me two months to write it!). But first ..._

_**Spoiler alert!** **If you avoid fan speculation, do not read this**, because it is based on many fan theories about Day 3, and I did my research to come up with a plausible plot arc. Endnotes and links to fan theories are provided in a final "chapter."_

___KKC belongs to Pat Rothfuss. I put myself at his mercy.___

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><p><strong>CHAPTER ONE<strong>

_White Lies_

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><p>Chronicler yawned as he lurched down the stairs into the early morning silence of the Waystone's common room. Shards of pink light sliced through tightly latched shutters, forming sharp, bright-edged shapes where they fell across empty tables and chairs. It was sunrise, then, damnably early to be awake. Still, Chronicler was surprised to see the shutters still closed. He had half expected to find Kvothe and Bast already seated at the wide mahogany bar, halfway through breakfast, tapping their fingers idly against the grain and grumbling about lazy, entitled guests who had no respect for the daily exigencies of simple village folk: wood to be split and bread to be kneaded, water to be pumped and bars to be polished to dust.<p>

Chronicler placed his leather satchel on the table nearest the stairs and peered around the room, hoping for a glimpse of the innkeeper or his improbable assistant. He wondered idly how quickly the red-haired man could procure breakfast, and whether he stocked coffee. He stalled out as his eyes caught on the dark mass huddled by the bar.

Kvothe lay atop a long table, seemingly sound asleep. He slept on his side, half-curled, his right hand wrapped around his left. He was barefoot. His jaw had turned an ugly shade of purple where the soldier had clipped him yesterday. His chest rose and fell in uneven gasps. Chronicler watched with open curiosity as he mumbled something incoherent and shifted in his sleep. He looked very young, and very fragile, and utterly out of place.

Had he dipped into his collection last night and passed out at the bar? The gods only knew the poor fellow had plenty of reasons to drink himself stupid. Chronicler looked around for a tell-tale tumbler of whiskey, a bottle of scutten, maybe a strong black brand. But no, all the bottles had been wiped clean and put away. The only thing out of place - besides the man on the table, of course - was the sword, Folly, which lay at his side.

Chronicler took a few cautious steps towards the table, leaned over the younger man, and nudged his shoulder gently.

"Kvo-aargh!" Chronicler let out a wild yell as he fell heavily to the floor.

He found himself on his back. Kvothe towered over him, his gaze wild, unseeing, and impossibly bright. He had thrown all his weight behind one knee, and was now using it to great effect to pin the scribe to the ground. Chronicler's shoulder, the one the scrael had so obligingly opened for him just days before, screamed in pain. He was fairly certain he'd encountered a chair on his way down.

Kvothe held Folly just above his throat. "Stop!" Chronicler wheezed. He scrabbled at the blade, gasping for air. "It's just me."

The red-haired man's eyes widened. He scrambled backwards, nearly dropping the sword in his haste to set it aside.

"Black hands, man!" he said, aghast. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Chronicler just groaned and slumped into the floor. The innkeeper looked him up and down, then blushed a deep red. He gave the scribe a sheepish look.

"Sorry," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. He stood and held out a hand. A slight frown creased his brow. "That said, you really ought to know better by now than to sneak up on me like that."

The balding man rose unsteadily to his feet, ignoring Kvothe's outstretched hand. He fingered the stitches in his shoulder. They still held. Well, that was something. He glared at the innkeeper and made a show of brushing dust off of his shirt. There wasn't any, of course.

Kvothe shrugged uncomfortably and glanced away. His eyes fell upon the cheerful gold light sneaking through the shutters, and he swore under his breath. He leapt over the bar, graceful as a cat - or perhaps a thief - to rest the sword back in its cradle on the mounting board. He whirled and placed his hands flat on the bar, as if preparing to throw himself over it again. He stopped himself just before he leapt, his lips pressing into a thin line. He rubbed his palms against the grain, then forced himself to walk, stiffly, around the end of the bar and across the room. He opened the shutters on the wide window nearest the door. Daylight suffused the taproom, bright and golden and full of promise.

Kvothe clapped Chronicler on his good shoulder as he walked back to the bar. "I've got to get the bread on," he said, "before Bast wakes and wonders why I haven't gotten to it yet. He worries too much about me as it is. Open things up for me, would you?"

Chronicler snorted, and Kvothe gave him an odd look. "What's so funny?"

"You and him," he said, "dancing around each other the way you do. Merciful Tehlu, don't you tire of lying? I'm starting to think you two invent secrets just to fight off boredom."

Kvothe's eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth as if to ask what Chronicler meant, then closed it again. "I don't have time for this," he snapped. "Either help me or get out of the way."

Feeling a little guilty about the jibe - and not a small bit anxious about placing himself at the mercy of two men who would clearly care not a jot if he died violently, and soon - Chronicler obliged. He opened the shutters, and the front door besides. It was a cool autumn day, but the light and fresh air went a long way towards chasing out the dark silence that hung around the place.

The innkeeper disappeared into the back room. He reappeared several minutes later with an armful of kindling and knelt before the black stone fireplace.

"What were you doing?" Chronicler asked as he watched the red-haired man brush ash from the hearth.

"What?"

"Sleeping on the table," he clarified.

Annoyance flashed across the younger man's face. "Practicing the Ketan," he said shortly. He rubbed his hand and frowned. "I couldn't get it right. I took a break. Must have fallen asleep."

Chronicler felt a stab of pity for the man, though it was tempered slightly by the ache in his shoulder. "I'm sure you'll get it next time."

"I'm sure," Kvothe echoed. His voice was flat as a cutting board.

He finished kindling the fire and stood back. He clapped his hands together and smiled placidly. "There. I'll just fetch some water and we'll be ready for company." His lips twisted wryly. "Who knows? Maybe we'll get a whole half dozen today." He looked up at Chronicler. "Now, breakfast. Omelets?"

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><p>Bast came down the stairs just as Kvothe disappeared into the back room with two empty plates. He acknowledged the scribe with a nod, then strode past him into the center of the taproom. He stood a while by the door, humming absently to himself, staring out at the wide dirt road and the vivid autumn colors beyond.<p>

Kvothe's voice wafted in from the back room. "Bast, is that you? Hold on, I'll throw together some breakfast."

Bast smiled brightly and plopped down next to Chronicler at the bar.

He immediately looked bored. His bright eyes darted from the bottles on the shelf to the sword on the wall, then away. He shifted on the stool, stood, sat back down again, and sighed. He yawned widely and stretched like a cat.

He pulled four bottles off the shelf. Red, blue, yellow, and green. He slid them around on the bar, making their colored reflections waltz dizzyingly across the wall. His eyes darted back and forth and he laughed quietly to himself, dancing in his seat.

Chronicler was relieved to see that Bast's mysterious midnight outing had lifted his spirits. For all of that, there was something different about him this morning, something feral and dark that the daylight couldn't hide. His eyes were too bright and too hard, his demeanor too wild.

"Where did you go last night?" Chronicler said quietly.

Bast's hands froze on the bottles. His smile grew wicked. He put a long finger to his lips. "Shhh," he hissed, his eyes darting towards the back room.

Chronicler snorted, shaking his head. "Tehlu shelter us, fools and children all."

Bast's smile dropped a notch. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just that you two make a fine couple. You deserve each other, really."

"A fine couple?" Bast turned the words over slowly in his mouth. He cocked his head to the side, clearly puzzled. "You think Reshi and I are ... lovers?"

"Aren't you?"

Bast laughed, a wild cackle. He laughed helplessly, doubling over and clutching at the bar for support. Chronicler reddened.

"Reshi, did you hear?" Bast called out, his bright blue eyes dancing. "Chronicler thinks we are lovers."

Chronicler heard a soft snort from the back room. "With all those dark-eyed milkmaids left to charm? How could you possibly find the time?"

Bast laughed again and shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. "_Anpauen_," he said, gesturing inarticulately at Chronicler. "The stories you folk tell yourselves."

"There's no need for all that," Chronicler grumbled, clearly affronted. "It was an honest mistake." Bast just chuckled some more.

Chronicler stared at the bar in sullen silence until Kvothe reappeared from the back room. The red-haired man placed a plate before Bast with a practiced flourish. It practically brimmed over with tomatoes and fried potatoes. Underneath lay two properly plate-sized omelets stuffed with mushrooms, peppers, and cheese.

Bast clapped delightedly. "Reshi, you've outdone yourself."

Kvothe sketched a shallow bow. He smiled indulgently and pushed the food towards his apprentice. "Well, I didn't want you to starve," he explained. "And I thought you might be famished, after last night."

Bast's smile froze. "Last night?" he said warily.

"Oh, yes." Kvothe's smile was all teeth. "You must have really worn yourself out, running around like that. It's not like you to wake up so late."

Bast relaxed. For a moment, he'd feared his master had found the bodies of the soldiers in the woods. Or worse, that he had somehow learned Bast had hired them to rob the inn. He was not sure how the innkeeper would react if he discovered that Bast had been spreading tales and causing trouble in the hope of forcing his master's hand. Few things frightened Bast more than the razor-sharp edge of the innkeeper's anger.

"Oh, that." He waved his hand dismissively. "That was nothing. Chronicler kept me awake all night with his snoring, is all."

"Snoring!" Chronicler cried. "I did not."

Kvothe frowned. "I didn't hear any snoring, Bast."

"Of course you didn't, Reshi," Bast said pointedly. "How could you, when you were sleeping on the tables down here?"

Kvothe looked shocked. He stared at his apprentice in consternation. "You knew? Why didn't you wake me?"

Bast shrugged and shoveled a forkful of potatoes into his mouth. "I've sat on that miserable plank you call a bed. I didn't figure you'd notice the difference." He swallowed, then continued. "Besides, I think it's good for you, Reshi. Practicing the Ketan again, I mean. Wearing yourself out. Building up your strength. It will all come back to you soon, I'm sure of it."

Kvothe's pause was barely noticeable. "I'm sure you're right, Bast," he said easily. "Now finish your breakfast, and I'll restart my story."

Bast shook his head vigorously. "I don't need my ears to eat," he said between bites. "Go on, please."

Kvothe drew a long breath, then sighed. "Very well. But I warn you both, things are about to take a dark turn."


	2. A Place to Burn

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TWO<strong>

_A Place to Burn_

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><p>I practiced the Ketan early in the morning, before the sun had fully risen, then headed to the Fishery. I'd been back at the University nearly three terms, and the season was just beginning to turn. Birch and aspen, harbingers of autumn, tinted the landscape a cheerful yellow. It was the sort of day that makes one think of crisp apples and harvest dances.<p>

I paused on the threshold of Kilvin's workshop, drinking in the stillness of the great hall. I was the only person there at that hour. I walked past a dozen ill-lit tables strewn with the bric-a-brac of metallurgists, glassblowers, and potters. My own desk was peppered with a muddled assortment of tools that another artificer might have confused for the makings of a deck lamp: steel plates and rivets, jars of acid and sheets of wax, etching needles and gravers and spindly copper wire.

I lifted a small box-like object from one of the many pockets in my cloak. Light glinted off its sharp edges as I rolled it in my palm. There was enough copper inlay in each facet to cast a jot.

I placed the box on my desk and removed my cloak, wrapping it tightly around Caesura before tucking them both out of sight. Kilvin disliked weapons of any kind, and I had no desire to test the limits of his tolerance for any of my less gentlemanly pursuits.

I settled onto a stool, picked up the slim metal graver, and pressed it against the only untouched facet of the box. I etched a delicate pattern onto the steel, then began to carve in earnest. I lost myself for a time in the rhythmic bite of the tool, the smooth pressure of the wooden handle against my calloused palm.

Students straggled in over the next several hours. I ignored all of them except Fela, who smiled so brightly at me from the doorway that I couldn't help smiling back. She threw her cloak over her arm and walked over.

"Just a second," I said absently. I finished hammering copper wire into the freshly grooved plate and set my tools down on the desk. I beamed up at Fela as I massaged the stiffness from my hands.

"You're as happy as I've ever seen you," she observed. "You must be almost finished."

"Almost," I agreed. I held the box out to her. "It works like a charm now. The rest is just details."

She took it from me. "Oooph, it's heavy. Mind if I look closer?"

I shook my head, and she grinned. I hadn't shown it to anyone yet, or even told them what it did. In truth, I hadn't even been certain that it would work. Of course, my reticence had caused a small flurry of speculation around the Fishery, and I didn't mind that either.

Kilvin only tolerated these theatrics because I had paid for the materials out of my own purse. Still, he had called me into his office one morning and made me swear, on the moon and my good right hand and much else besides, that my design was neither an implement of war, nor an aid to thieves and pirates, nor likely in any other way to reflect badly upon the University and the artificer's craft.

Fela turned the box over in her hands. "It's beautiful," she said earnestly. She held it up to study the inlay. Her fingers traced the delicate copper runes. "It's got something to do with sound," she said finally, "but I'm not sure what. This combination here reminds me of the runes on the obsidian chips in your Bloodless."

I smiled. "Exactly."

She frowned. "So it's designed to ... what? Absorb sound?"

"Something like that." I stood and pressed my hands to either side of the box. "Listen."

A chord played, then another. A song started, lilting and fragile and sweet.

Fela's eyes widened. "Is that your lute?"

I nodded proudly.

"That's ... incredible," she breathed. We listened as the song became a delicate waltz, then transitioned into a shy refrain. Eventually, it faded into silence. Fela handed the music box back to me, shaking her head in amazement. "It sounded like you were actually playing it," she said admiringly.

Her eyes flicked over the copper wire on my desk and her smile slipped slightly, her brow creasing into a tiny frown.

"What?" I said, suddenly anxious.

She bit her lip. "Well ... it's wonderful, really. But I don't know if Kilvin's going to like it. That's a lot of copper to put into something ... well ..."

"Frivolous?" I supplied. She flushed slightly, then nodded. "I've thought about that. I think it's more useful than it looks at first. Make it out of gold and it's an heirloom. Use it to record family histories, or stories, or songs. Make it out of iron and you can get an important message a long distance." I frowned. "I want to link two together so that you can pass sound between them, but I haven't figured out yet how to deal with the attenuation of the link over distance." I shrugged. "Either way, it wasn't a wasted effort."

To tell the truth, I didn't give ha'penny what Kilvin thought about my little music box. I hadn't made it for him. I had made it for Auri.

When I'd returned from Severen, I'd promised her I had come home to stay. But the road was calling me again, sweet and low, and I longed to be away. Summer term had witnessed my last dying hopes of finding any information on the Amyr or the Chandrian in the University Archives, but I still clung to the hope that there was some vital scrap of parchment hidden away in some dusty corner of the world, perhaps in some minor lord's private collection or some monastery's archives. Surely the knowledge I had sought for so long was still out there somewhere, just waiting for me to stumble upon it and shape it to purpose. That was how these things always happened in stories.

Of course, I had no more chance of gaining access to private collections as student of the Arcanum than I'd had as a Waterside thief. Still, I had picked up a few tricks in Tarbean that I was more than willing to put to the task. I knew it was only a matter of time before I found myself walking down the road with the wind at my back, a song in my heart, and a few dangerous ideas in mind.

I knew Auri would wait for me when I left, as surely as I knew I might never return. I imagined her huddled on her blanket on the roof of Mains, impossibly alone, and my heart ached. I was reminded again of the long years after my family had died. I had wished so desperately that they'd left something of themselves behind. The sound of a voice, the strum of a chord. I couldn't leave Auri like that. So I had written her a song, and trapped it in a box.

"Kvothe? Are you okay?"

I was abruptly aware that I had been staring into the distance for some time, lost in dark thoughts. I glanced over at Fela. "I'm fine," I lied. I sat back down and rubbed my face. "Just didn't sleep enough, I guess." I smiled crookedly through my fingers. "Elodin and I went fishing last night. With our bare hands. Knee-deep in the Omethi. At midnight."

"You didn't!" she gasped. "You know, last week he made me smell every flower in the meadow next to the bridge. It took _hours_. I must have looked a complete fool."

We complained good-naturedly about Elodin while she cleared a space at my desk and laid out her own work, which turned out to be a collection of small, brightly colored glass animals.

We worked in silence after that. I sanded down the fresh inlay and carved another rune. She twirled a thin rod of blue glass over a bench burner, humming absently to herself. I was surprised to discover she was more than a little tone deaf. I ducked my head, trying to hide a smile.

Suddenly I frowned, cocking my head to the side. There was something oddly familiar about the song she was humming, something I couldn't quite -

I dropped the graver. It hit the spool of copper sidelong and sent it flying off the desk, spitting wire as it went.

"Where did you hear that?" I cried.

Fela glanced up and blanched at the look on my face. Without realizing it, I had leapt to my feet. I stood over her, trembling like a leaf.

"What? What's wrong?" she said. She stared around the shop, her eyes wild.

"The song," I said. "The song you were just humming. Where did you hear it?"

"What -" She shook her head as if to clear it. "Last night, at the Eolian. Denna sang it. Why?"

The world pitched around me. My skin suddenly felt clammy and chill. I staggered back to my chair and tucked my head between my legs, breathing deeply and hoping desperately that I wouldn't faint.

When the world finally reasserted itself, I saw Fela standing over me. Her long fingers were pressed against my forehead. She asked me a question, her voice full of concern, and I shook my head. I pulled back from her touch, shaky and numb but no longer in any real danger of collapsing.

Dark thoughts darted like startled harts through the fog in my mind, and I chased after them. So Denna had sung her Song of Seven Sorrows last night in the Eolian. She had sung of Lanre, just as my father had. Surely the Chandrian would come for her now. It seems odd to say it, but I was somehow certain of this, as if it were as knowable as the weight of a coin or the chords of a song.

I rose to my feet, pushing away my dizziness and fear. I focused all my attention on one single thought. I had to find Denna.

I ignored Fela's bewildered protests as I pulled my bundled cloak out from under the desk, unwrapped Caesura, and slung the sword belt around my hips.

Without thinking, I drew the sword from her scabbard. Fela gasped. The harsh white light of my desk lamp danced wickedly along the finely honed edge as I ran my hand along the flat of the blade. I sheathed the sword again without flourish, content in the knowledge that she would be in easy reach if needed, and threw my cloak over my shoulders.

There was a finality to that gesture that took me completely by surprise. I realized suddenly that I had no intention of ever returning to the University, whether I found Denna today or not.

Nostalgia gripped me then, abrupt and painful. I pulled Fela tightly to my chest. She made a soft noise of surprise as I kissed her forehead. "May all your stories be glad ones, and your roads be smooth and short," I muttered thickly. Tears pricked at the corners of my vision. I seized her hand and placed the music box in her palm. I wrapped her fingers around it. "Take this to Elodin," I said. "Tell him to take it to the roof. He'll understand."

Then I walked away, certain in the knowledge that I would never see her again.

Images came to mind unbidden as I walked towards Imre. They tumbled over one another, a torrent fed by memory and fear. Denna weeping as Cinder touched her face. Her white skin marred by ugly gashes. Her eyes wide and glassy. Her limbs splayed beneath her, like a doll thrown to the ground. Like my last memory of my mother._  
><em>

I started to run. I ran all the way from the University to the inn where Denna had been staying since her return from Anilin. By the time I barreled into the taproom of the stout two-story building, I had a stitch in my side and no breath left to speak of.

I slumped against the bar, drawing great lungfuls of air. My face was flushed with heat, my hair sticking up in all directions. I must have also been a little wild around the eyes, for the innkeeper got one good look at me and took a hasty step back. The movement sent bits of chopped carrot and raw onion flying off the bar.

"The woman who is staying here," I managed between gasps. "Dinnah, Dinae, whatever she's calling herself now. Beautiful, dark hair and eyes. Voice like a song. Where is she?"

The innkeeper brandished a kitchen knife at me. "See here," he started. His voice was sharp and clipped. "You can't just march into my inn and demand things like that. I don't keep track of my guests -"

I took another deep breath and a step back. "I'm sorry," I said. "That was rude. But please, is there anything you can tell me? It's important."

His lips pursed, but his eyes were thoughtful. Eventually, he nodded. "Beautiful, eh? You must be looking for the one that has suitors calling on her all hours of the night." He shook his head wonderingly. "If I'd half her luck with men ..." he trailed off, then glanced up at me suspiciously. "You're not looking to give her trouble, are you? I won't have it said there's been trouble on my account."

"She's already_ in_ trouble," I said, exasperated, "I'm trying to get to her out of it."

He nodded slowly. "Aye, maybe she is at that. I caught her sneaking out the window not an hour ago, cloak and travel case in hand. It's a good thing she paid up front, otherwise I'd have pulled her down by her ankles and sat on her until she settled her debts."

I stared at him. "She was running? Do you know why?"

He shrugged. "Two men came by this morning. Not much like her usual suitors, to tell it true. Most of them are twice your age and half as pretty, and wearing twice your weight in coin." He looked me up and down and smiled suddenly. "No offense."

I flushed slightly. "None taken. How were these men different?"

"Armor-clad." He snorted. "In Imre, of all places. As if there's trouble to be found hereabout. Swords at their hips, and monstrous bleeding slabs of iron they were, too. Looked like mercenaries, maybe. One of them had shifty eyes. Smiled to easy. The kind of smile that rubs you the wrong way, you know?"

I nodded absently. Could the Chandrian have sent scouts? It didn't seem likely. Perhaps the men were Chandrian themselves, hiding their signs. I recalled what the Cthaeh had said of Cinder: "You'd think a man with coal-black eyes would make an impression when he stops to buy a drink."

"Did they say what they wanted?" I asked.

"Same as all of you want, I imagine. A piece of _her_. I told them she was out. She'd said she didn't want to be disturbed."

I frowned. "Which way did she go? Once she was out the window?"

He shrugged. "Can't be sure. But she was headed towards the square, last I looked."

"Thank you," I said. I dug in my purse and placed a few coins on the bar, then gave him a small but earnest bow. "Sorry about the trouble."

The coins disappeared with a practiced flick of his wrist. He grinned and winked at me. "Aye, come back any time."

I started to jog towards the main square but consigned myself to a miserable shuffle when the stitch in my side returned. I felt raw, hollow and heavy, like someone had scraped out my insides and filled them with lead.

The sounds of the city changed as I walked. At first, I only heard the usual city bustle - hawkers pushing their wares, the clap of horseshoes on packed dirt, the clamor of two dozen voices all talking at once. But the voices ahead of me were growing louder. I limped forward, straining to hear. "Fire," I heard, and "Tehlu protect us!" I stepped out into the main square and froze in place.

The Eolian was on fire. The flames licking up the sides of the worn wooden facade were the clean, cold blue of purified gas.

The fire was clearly fresh, as the shouting in the streets had only just begun. Still, the flames were spreading faster than any I'd ever seen. The fire had already turned the facade of the first story to char. A gust of wind churned up a column of thick black smoke and swept it across the cobbles like a storm cloud, driving onlookers into alleyways and side streets.

Someone spoke just behind me, and I leapt nearly a foot in the air. "God blackened _damn_," the voice said in low, admiring tones. "I canna think o' a worse place for a row."

I glanced sidelong at the man who'd spoken. He was squatting on a crate near my knees, a bottle of spirits tucked between his thighs. He eyed my puzzled expression and gave me a lazy smile that lacked a few essential teeth. "The window," he clarified, pointing up at the burning building.

I glanced back towards the music hall and promptly forgot to breath. Deoch and Marie were perched on the wide sill of a second story window, clinging to the frame and screaming bloody murder at one another. A bad place for a row, indeed.

Deoch gave a sudden, garbled shout and fell heavily from the window. His hands grasped useless at the air for a second, then he hit the ground with a decisive thud.

I cringed, but the fall didn't seem to have done any real damage. He groaned and rolled over, then stumbled to his knees. He glared up at the window, spitting curses at the tall, long-haired woman that had clearly just pushed him out of it. Marie stared back down at him, her mouth set in a grim line. She tucked her skirts around her and jumped after him.

Her leg snapped when she hit the cobblestones. She screamed and bent double, her face draining of color. Deoch stumbled to his feet and charged past her, barreling back towards the building with murder in his eyes. Relentless, Marie dove forward on her good leg and seized him by his ankle. He fell to the ground again, cursing. She swayed but managed to keep her grip on him.

"Stop, you damned fool!" she shouted. "You've no chance at all! You'll only get yourself killed!" She gritted her teeth and yanked at his shirt, trying to pull him out of the path of falling debris.

Deoch rose to his knees once more, but this time he didn't try to stand. It seemed Marie had finally gotten through to him. He stared at the building, his eyes hollow. He screamed a single word, over and over again. _Stanchion._

Stanchion was still inside the building. No wonder Deoch was so desperate to throw himself into the flames. I should have felt sorrow then, or at least fear. Instead, I only felt numb. A cold fury built in my chest, turning my heart to ice. Another good man would die today, for no other reason than that he had crossed the path of the Chandrian.

Rage seared away the fog in my mind, and I burst into action. I sucked in a lungful of clean air and dashed forward through the smoke. A maelstrom of charred rubbish rebounded off my cloak and tumbled to the earth as I reached the front door. I wrapped a hand in my cloak and seized the loose corner of the lintel. I drew my dagger from my pocket and used it to pry the wood free from the wall.

The wood broke away too easily. It had rotted through. If I'd had any lingering doubts about the Chandrian's involvement in the fire, the sight of that rotten wood would have quenched them. I lunged for the fountain at the center of the square, shouted a binding, and slammed the plank into the water.

Nothing happened. The fire continued to burn, violent and blue.

I stood frozen for a moment, stupefied. Then I dropped the plank to the cobblestones and stepped back. The fire was too hot, too strange. There was nothing I could do.

Marie met my eyes. I shook my head, and her hopeful expression faded. She nodded her understanding and turned back to Deoch. He wept openly into his hands as he watched the building burn.

I felt empty, burned out and hollow. I closed my eyes for a moment, the afterimage of the fire glowing orange against my closed lids. When I opened them, I realized abruptly that many of the townsfolk were now watching me. Their stares were frank and curious. Some seemed hopeful, others suspicious. With a shock, I realized they were waiting to see what I would do. They had recognized me as Kvothe the Arcane. Now they expected me to do something extraordinary, something worthy of a story.

I turned my back on their stares, feeling nauseous and bitter and cold. No one would believe my presence here was a coincidence. If I could not put out the fire, they would likely say I'd set it myself. I only hoped Deoch would have the good sense not to believe it.

A stallion snorted and danced at the end of its lead rope, ears pricked and neck outstretched. I jogged over to him, thankful for a distraction from the staring crowd.

The stallion was pure white. He was the finest creature I'd ever seen, finer than I could ever hope to afford. A Vaulder, strong and long-legged and built for running. I patted his neck and murmured soothingly in his ear. "Hush, hush. All's well. Let's get you away from this fire, eh?"

My hand froze mid-stroke as my eye caught on his saddle. It was dark leather, heavily embroidered, and it bore the crest of Baron Jakis. I shook my head. The poor creature deserved better than to be ridden by Ambrose until he died. I wondered darkly if the bastard whipped his horses with as much enthusiasm as I'd heard he beat his whores.

I untied the Vaulder from the hitching post and lead him towards the opposite side of the square. He caught a whiff of smoke and danced nervously to one side. His unrest echoed my own. I could still feel the crowd watching me. I could hear their unspoken question. _Why doesn't he do something?_

I pushed them from my mind. The crowd didn't matter. The Eolian didn't matter. All that mattered was that I needed to get to Denna, and I needed to get there fast.

In other words, I needed a horse. I looked up at the great beast at my side, and I smiled.

I didn't stop to think. I simply stepped into a stirrup and slung my leg over the stallion's back. Adrenaline spiked through me and I laughed, a single harsh bark. I heard several of the townsfolk gasp.

Ambrose emerged from a side street as I settled into his finely tooled saddle. His impotent screams were lost to the wind as I charged down the great road towards Severen.


	3. Light Steps and Heavy Words

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* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER THREE<strong>

_Light Steps and Heavy Words_

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><p>I gave the stallion his head, and he flew down the Great Stone Road like the hounds of hell were at our heels. For my part, I would gladly have taken hounds over what I knew was headed our way. I guessed it would take Ambrose no more than an hour to roust the constabulary in Imre. Nothing could spur men to action like the distemper of a rich man's son.<p>

Gut instinct aimed me towards Vintas, which is just a kind way of saying I had no better ideas. Denna's patron was a member of the Maer's court in Severen, and while I felt that his protection was worse than no protection at all, I knew Denna felt differently. There simply wasn't much point to a patron if his power and coin couldn't protect you, on the road or off of it. Besides, he had commissioned her to write that thrice-cursed song. Surely he would expect her to play it now at court. How else could he be congratulated on everything from the genius of her phrasing to her voice and bearing, as if she were a statue he had carved from bare earth? I gritted my teeth and dug my heels into the horse's ribs.

We galloped several miles before I forced the Vaulder to slow to a trot. In spite of the fair weather and the empty road, I felt ill at ease. I wasn't particularly thrilled to be running from the constables, of course, or to be running towards the Chandrian. But that wasn't the source of my frustration. I couldn't help but feel that I had forgotten to do something terribly important.

I rode in an increasingly wretched silence for the better part of an hour before I figured out what was nagging me. I didn't know the horse's name.

I pondered this a while as we trotted through the dappled shadows of the long road. Eventually, I decided the beast's name was Dularion. If pressed, I would have said it meant "strong spirit." In truth, I simply named him this because it seemed to fit. Clearly the horse agreed, for he hardly needed any direction from me at all once I named him. We rode on with a single-minded purpose, a figure shrouded in shadow astride a horse as blindingly bright as sunlight on snow.

The road sloped into a gully limned by a jumble of jagged rocks, and I was forced to dismount. I eased all my weight onto one leg and nearly fell out of the stirrup. Hours of hard riding had turned my legs to rubber. I seized Dularion's reins, and we made our careful way down the hill of loose stone.

I felt a pricking on the back of my neck as we picked our way down the path. I froze and looked up sharply, but there was nothing there. Nothing ahead or behind but trees and stone, and yet I had the odd sensation I was being watched. I shrugged to ease the tension in my shoulder blades and fixed my attention on my feet until we made it down the hillside. These days, the sixth sense I'd developed on the streets of Tarbean led me wrong more often than not.

Still, I couldn't help thinking that the path before us, half-hidden as it was by shadow, was a fine place for an ambush. I cursed my own anxiety as I led Dularion into the darkness. We ducked beneath the reaching branches that lined the broken path, circling a tall sandstone bluff.

A branch cracked behind me, and I jumped nearly a foot in the air. I whirled, drawing Caesura. Dularion followed my lead, high-stepping in a tight circle.

"I know you're there," I called, though secretly I suspected I'd only startled a hart or hare. "There's no point in hiding."

Denna pushed her way out of a thicket. She stilled when she saw me, her eyes going wide.

I don't honestly know which of us was more surprised to see the other, but she recovered her composure more quickly than I did. She turned to untangle a twig that had snagged on her dress, then stepped forward into the road. She picked a few leaves out of her dark hair and smoothed her skirts. Then she folded her arms and looked up at me expectantly, one eyebrow raised.

I was abruptly aware that Caesura was now dangling limply at my side. I blushed furiously and sheathed the blade in what I hoped was a serviceably heroic manner.

"I heard you were in some trouble," I said, "so I thought I'd come and help." They were exactly the same words I'd used in Trebon. At the time, I had been lying.

"I see," she said. She looked me up and down. Her eyes took in my horse, my heavy cloak, my hand resting lightly on the pommel of my sword. She looked into my eyes, and she shivered. Then shook herself, briskly, and the strange look in her eyes disappeared.

Her gaze darted back to the horse, and her eyes narrowed. "That's a beautiful horse," she said. Her tone was suspicious.

"That he is," I agreed. I patted Dularion's neck fondly.

"You didn't buy a beast that fine on short notice." She stepped closer and her eyes caught on crest on the saddle. "Jakis?" she hissed. "You borrowed from that bastard?"

"Of course not," I said hotly. "I stole from him."

Her jaw dropped open. Her hand flew up, half-covering her face. "You ... stole from him," she repeated faintly.

I nodded. A crooked smile crept onto my face. "Right under his nose. His expression ..." I shook my head, my smile turning wistful. "I could get rich selling cartoons of it to all the women he's slighted."

Her expression changed from bemusement to horror. "That's not funny, Kvothe. Horse theft is a hanging offense. He'll have you executed."

My smile slipped a notch. "Only if he catches me."

She gave me an odd look. "Of course he'll catch you, as soon as you return to the University."

I squared my shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. "Well, in that case, it's a good thing I'm not going back."

Denna's eyebrows rose. I shrugged casually, even as my heart clenched. "I thought I'd head back east for a while," I said. "Chase the wind. You know."

She did know. She knew more about burning bridges than anyone I'd ever met. She considered me for a moment, then nodded. "Fair enough," she said. She didn't push. That was the root of our relationship, of course, our blessing and curse.

I glanced around. "I expected to catch up to you ages ago. How did you come so far so quickly?"

"Oh!" She ducked back into the bushes. She returned with a travelsack thrown over one shoulder and her harp case in one hand. In the other, she held the reins of a placid, short-legged roan mare. The mare didn't much care for the briars, and it took Denna a few minutes to coax her out into the open.

"She's a far sight sturdier than she looks," she said, patting the mare. She shrugged and gave me an apologetic half-smile. It was a tiny gesture, and the most beautiful thing I'd seen all day. "She's no Vaulder, but she's best I could manage heading out of town on short notice."

"She looks like she could pull a wagon or three," I agreed. I turned back to the stallion and sighed. "I only needed Dularion to find you. A Vaulder won't be worth half a damn to either of us if we get hauled back to Imre in irons. Still, it's good to know we won't be horseless."

She raised an eyebrow. "We?"

I realized abruptly that I hadn't asked if she would mind my company. I blushed. "Denna, I ..."

My voice trailed off. I hadn't thought about what I would say once I found her. Did she know the Chandrian were after her? If I told her that they were, would she believe me or send me away? I planted my feet and took a deep breath.

"Denna, there are men after you."

"I know that. How do you?"

"I came looking for you this morning. The innkeeper told me he'd turned two men away earlier. He said they were armed." I paused, fighting off the urge to smile. "He saw you sneaking out the window."

She blushed. "How embarrassing," she said, but the corners of her mouth quirked upwards. She gave me a considering look. "So you stole a horse and hammered down the road after me. A bit of an overreaction, don't you think?"

"I doubt it." I said grimly. "Do you know who is looking for you?"

She shook her head. "No, and I'm not sure I want to." She frowned. "Why, do you?"

"I've a fair idea," I admitted.

She looked up at me, her face expectant. "Well?"

I drew a breath, then paused, wishing there were a gentle way to break hard news. "The Eolian caught fire just after you left town." Her hand flew to her face. Her eyes widened. I took another steadying breath. "Denna, the fire was blue."

Her knees gave out. I dashed forward and threw an arm around her waist. She clung to me for a moment, then stepped away. She closed her eyes briefly. When she looked at me again, her gaze was almost calm. Almost. She walked over to a wide rock and sat down, arranging her skirts carefully. I sat down next to her.

She stared into the trees for a while, her expression studiously blank. "You're quite certain?" she said finally.

I nodded. "I saw it. I ... I tried to put out the fire, but I couldn't. It burned too hot."

"Are Stanchion and Deoch safe?"

I stared at my hands. "Deoch got out. Stanchion ..." I swallowed tightly against a sudden lump in my throat.

"Oh, gods," Denna whispered. She hid her face in her hands.

I sat frozen in place, uncertain what to do. I had no idea how she would react if I tried to hold her. I hovered uncertainly for a moment, then reached out and rested my hand lightly on her arm.

She stared up at me through her fingers. "I don't understand," she said. "Why would the Chandrian come after me?" She lifted her head from her hands and gave a sudden laugh, breathy and wild. "Gods, I feel so foolish just saying that."

"You've heard the stories," I said. "They kill anyone that sings of them."

She shook her head. "But I didn't sing of them," she said. "I sang of Lanre."

I hesitated, remembering our fight in Severen. I had told her then that the stories said Lanre had become one of the Chandrian. I didn't want to bring it up again. In fact, I wanted desperately to erase every sharp-edged memory of that day. Half a year had passed, and it was still a shadow between us.

I think Denna sensed my distress. Her dark eyes narrowed at me briefly then lost focus, turning inward. "You knew," she said slowly, remembering. "You knew this would happen. That's why you were so angry with me in Severen, when you heard me sing."

"I suspected," I conceded. "I ... "

I fell silent. Part of me wanted to tell her about my parents, but I knew that words would fail me if I tried. That secret was etched into my bones now. It was as much a part of me as my own name. In any case, how could it help Denna to know that my troupe had died no more than a three day ride from this place, at the hands of the creatures who hunted her now? Over two dozen of my people had died that day. My family. What chance did we have, travelling alone?

"Kvothe?"

I glanced over and found her staring at me. "I spoke to a girl from Trebon last year," I said hastily. "She'd seen what the Mauthen family had found under the foundations of their farm. It was a vase with the Chandrian painted on it. When I heard your song ..." I shrugged. "I'd heard that Lanre became one of the Chandrian. I was afraid they would come after you."

She nodded. There was a long pause. "So, what do you suggest we do?" she said at last.

"What we're doing," I said. "We run, and we hope they can't find us."

"And if they do?"

"Then I will protect you," I said fiercely. "Or die trying."

She nudged me playfully, but her eyes were grave. "My knight in shining armor," she murmured. She gave me a wry smile. "I hope you didn't steal the sword, too."

I ran my fingers along the smooth grip. "Caesura is mine. And I know how to use her."

She nodded. "You look like you do. I wouldn't have said that a year ago. Now it suits you." She paused. "I don't know how I feel about that, all things considered. But I suppose, right now, I am glad of it."

I nodded absently. I looked down the path before us and sighed. "We'd better get started. I want to get as far as possible before the light dies."

We picked our way around the stone bluff, horses in tow. The road widened and straightened until it was once again a proper road, well-worn by wheel ruts and the imprint of horseshoes left during the last rain. Without a word, we mounted our horses and spurred them to a fast trot. Denna's face was a weary mask, a reflection of my own.

We cantered through abandoned fields ajumble with purple flowers, through cheerful stands of yellow beech and dark swaths of pine forest. Eventually we reached a cluster of farms. Beyond, orderly rows of autumn wheat swayed in the wind, ready for the harvest.

I called out to Denna and reined in just past the largest farm. Horses grazed in a paddock nearby. They were simple plow beasts, no match for my white stallion, but they looked well-cared for.

I dismounted. "Time to part ways," I told Dularion. He blinked at me, unconcerned. I unsaddled him, stifling a twinge of regret. I rubbed him down, then slapped his rear.

"Head back towards Imre, you great beast." He gave me a baleful stare, and I laughed. "Fine, then find yourself a fine mare to rut with. And stay out of sight of the constables." He whinnied. His stance told me he wasn't planning to go anywhere anytime soon.

I shrugged and turned away, staring down at the saddle in my hands. I wondered what on earth to do with it. Fine as it was, we couldn't possibly take it with us.

Suddenly, I smiled.

I used my small dagger to pry away the semi-precious stones embedded in the flap, taking care to slash up the finely tooled leather as much as possible. I tucked the stones into my purse. Then I added a few embellishments to Ambrose's house crest. Denna peeked over my shoulder, reading aloud as I carved. "Jackass?"

I grinned at her. I whistled the chorus of "Jackass, Jackass" as I picked up the saddle, slung it over my shoulder, and marched towards a stand of trees.

"Where are you going?" Denna asked, her expression startled.

"I have a sudden need to relieve myself," I announced.

I held the saddle with considerably more delicacy on my way back. I set it in the middle of the road, a present for the constables.

"Very mature," she observed. "What did Ambrose do to set you off, anyway?"

"He exists," I said firmly. "Saddle or cantle?"

"Saddle," she said, and stepped into it. I settled in behind her, grabbing the back of the saddle for support. I doubted Denna would be well-pleased if I took the opportunity to seize her by the waist. For that matter, the horse would not be well-pleased either.

Denna smiled wickedly at me as she gathered the reins. "I hope you have good balance," she said.

"I'll manage," I said, trying to look more confident than I felt. I hadn't ridden double since I was a child.

Denna spurred the horse to a quick trot. Every step bounced me up into the air, rattling my teeth and forcing me to clutch the horse's flanks with my thighs to avoid falling off. Denna half-turned and laughed out loud at the intent expression on my face. I narrowed my eyes at her, but inwardly I glowed. Her laughter had the ring of temple bells on a winter morning, warm and inviting.

We spoke very little as we rode. She told me about her time in Anilin, and I told her about my summer term. But our pauses grew deeper and wider, until we did not speak at all. We rode on in silence, lost in dark thoughts. As the afternoon waned, the sky grew heavy with the promise of rain. The changing weather suited my mood.

We left the road as the sun fell behind the tree line, seeking safety in a vast tangle of woods, and followed a meandering creek to a stand of towering spruces under which nothing grew. Dead pine needles made a smooth mattress of the forest floor. It was a calm, quiet place.

I hunted for stones and built a small firepit in the center of the clearing while Denna looked after the mare. She was good with horses. I suppose that was no surprise, given her restless nature.

She pulled two apples from her bag. She threw one to me and fed the other to the mare. I smiled, remembering an apple she and I had shared in Trebon.

She gave the mare a considering look. "She's quite red, isn't she? Not as red as you, of course ..." She stroked the horse's muzzle. "Maybe I should call her Apple."

I made a face. "By that logic, you should call me Apple too."

She laughed. "No, it doesn't suit you. You bite back when bitten. Besides, I'm not sure you're sweet enough."

"I'm plenty sweet," I objected. "When I want to be."

"You do _say_ the sweetest things," she conceded.

I stiffened. She offered me a quick, apologetic smile and turned back to the horse, speaking quickly to fill the silence between us before it could become tense. "Okay, not Apple then. What about ... Placid?"

I walked over, chewing this over as I chewed on my apple. "I think we can give her more credit than that. She came a long way today."

"That she did," she agreed. "What would you name her, young Taborlin?"

I smiled. I tucked the apple into my pocket and stepped to the mare's side. I pressed my hands against her barrel-like chest and closed my eyes. I breathed deeply, in and out, three times. Then, for good measure, I chanted the first few lines of a song Felurian had taught me in the language of the Fae. If I remember correctly, the song was about a goosegirl who fell under the thrall of the Prince of Twilight. I'm sure I mangled it horribly, but it sounded impressive enough if you didn't know anything about the Fae.

I opened my eyes to find Denna staring at me. Her expression was half shocked, half incredulous.

"You're full of shit," she said finally.

A grin broke out on my face. "True enough. But I did give her a name. She's Roah." The horse nickered softly, as if in approval.

Denna looked puzzled. "Roah?"

"It's a wood," I explained. "Dark and beautiful, sturdy and long-lived, strong as iron. It's stubborn, too, a hard wood to work."

She ran a hand through the horse's mane. "Roah. I like it."

I started a small fire while Denna laid out food from her travelsack. She'd brought bread and sausage as well as apples, proper food for a long journey. I supplemented this with blackberries and hickory nuts foraged along the road. I was surprised, and more than a little embarrassed, that I had not thought of food once during my flight from Imre.

After we ate, I doused our fire with water from the creek and used the last light of the day to hunt down a rabbit beat. Denna sang to me as I laid out snares using wire I kept in the pockets of my cloak. She bounced from one song to another, her voice low and lovely. She lay on the ground, her hair spread out behind her in a dark fan.

"What's your favorite song?" she asked.

I thought about it for a while. "The Raggle Taggle Ruh," I said finally.

She grinned at me, and her smile was like sunshine on my heart. "I've never heard of it. It sounds silly."

"It is, a bit. You wouldn't have heard of it. It's the sort of song we sing around the fire, among ourselves. It's not for others." I paused. "My parents wrote it."

"Oh? What's it about?"

I sat down beside her. "It's about a noble lady who runs away from home to live life as a trouper."

She smiled. "It sounds like just the song for me. Sing it to me?" So I did.

Afterwards, I practiced the Ketan. I stepped through it twice, with and without Caesura. I went more slowly than usual, determined not to misstep. Threat hung over us like a storm on the horizon. It was not a night for half-measures.

Denna watched me in silence, her dark eyes curious. At first I felt self-conscious, recalling how strange Tempi's slow dance had once seemed to me. But Denna's gaze held no hint of mockery, and I soon became used to the feel of her eyes on my back. For a brief time, I found some peace in surrender to the hypnotic focus the Ketan required.

It was full dark by the time I finished and sat cross-legged beside Denna on the forest floor. I rested Caesura across my knees.

Denna stared at the sword, her lips pursed. "Well, you've convinced me you know how to use that thing," she said. "For all the good it will do either of us." She stared into the darkness. "The two of us against the Chandrian," she muttered, "armed with only a sword."

I ran a hand along the flat of the blade. "She's not just any sword," I said. "She's five thousand years old. She spilled blood at the Battle of Drossen Tor. She's older even than the Chandrian."

Denna gave me a look of profound disbelief. I smiled crookedly. "Besides, I'm not just any swordsman. I'm Kvothe the Arcane, remember? I know the names of all things."

She snorted. "Pardon me if I don't feel entirely comforted."

I gave her a serious look. "I may not be Taborlin the Great, but I've got a few tricks up my sleeve." I glanced away, my expression darkening. "They don't call it blood magic for nothing."

She stilled. There was the barest of pauses, but to me it was frighteningly deep. "What kind of tricks?"

I hesitated. I was afraid of what she would think of me if I told her what I could do. What I had done.

I knew, when I dared think about it, that I wasn't like other students at the University, that I wasn't like other men. I suspected something inside me had broken when I was a child, the night my parents died. Or maybe it had broken in Tarbean, the day a boy tried to rip off my clothes, and I bit off his fingers. Maybe it had broken the day I doused Pike in alcohol and set him on fire.

I abruptly felt cold inside. I'd killed so many men since then. I'd killed women. I'd killed them in cold blood, from deep within the Heart of Stone. I was up to my elbows in blood, just like the tattoed Ciridae in the old stories. Unlike the Ciridae, I was not always certain that everything I'd done was just.

I wrapped my arms around myself, and shivered, and kept my silence. I couldn't tell Denna of the things I'd done. She would never love me if she knew. She would run away.

"Kvothe? What kind of tricks?"

I looked away, hating my silence even as I embraced it. I would carve a hole through an army to protect Denna. I would summon demons and shatter mountains. She would know that soon enough, when the Chandrian came. Surely I should warn her now. Surely the time for secrets was past.

"Kvothe?"

Three times, she asked for truth. I closed my eyes. When I spoke, my voice sounded hollow and cold. "I can break a bowstring or a blade without touching it. I can cut one man, be he dead or alive, and make another bleed. I can make a doll of a man, and kill him by destroying it. Sometimes I can summon a storm, and call down lightning from the sky."

She said nothing for a long time. "Have you done these things?" she said at last. Her expression was carefully blank.

I fixed my gaze on the blade in my hands. "Only to protect myself, or others."

She stared at me, her eyes wide and uncertain. She looked as if she might say something, then shook her head and looked away. Her fingers twirled her ring nervously.

"I don't want to frighten you," I said quickly. "I just want you to understand that I can protect you. I _will_ protect you, Denna. Always. No matter what."

Her eyes widened. "I know that," she said. After a moment, she rested a hand on my arm. "I trust you, Kvothe. I do. It's just ... well, it's a shock, is all."

She stared down at the sword lying across my knees and shuddered. "Put that thing away, would you? It gives me the all-overs."

I sheathed Caesura and placed her at my side. I shifted uncomfortably under Denna's gaze. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. What could I possibly say?

A faint laugh escaped her lips. "You blush very prettily for a stone-hearted killer," she teased. And just like that, the tension between flowed away. Not entirely forgotten, perhaps, but put aside for the moment.

We sat in silence for a long time, shoulder to shoulder, and watched the stars appear through a gap in the trees. Or, more correctly, she watched the stars, and I watched her.

Her cheeks were flushed from the cold. Her hair was tangled. Her eyes were dark pools. I sat and stared and stared.

She caught me staring and glanced away. A knowing smile danced at the corners of her mouth. Tension built between us, like a chord pulled taut, not yet released. It was sweet and shy and hungry and wild, all at once.

We filled the silence with small gestures and brief touches, a careful dance. I shifted slightly to the side, so that our shoulders brushed. She stretched, her back arching so that her breasts swelled against her bodice. I swept a stray eyelash from her cheek. She leaned over me to pick up a small yellow leaf at my feet. She fingered the leaf absently, then rested her head against my shoulder and tucked it in my cloak pin. She stared at the leaf, then sighed.

"What's wrong?"

"Now it's just waiting to die."

"It's just a leaf," I said gently, "I don't think it's waiting for anything."

She shrugged. A wind blew up around us, and she shivered. "It's cold."

I froze, uncertain. Was she asking me to hold her? I couldn't. What if I tried, and she startled? Now, more than ever, that was a risk I couldn't take.

I untucked the leaf. I wanted to tuck it into her braid, caress her face, run my fingers along her lips. I tossed it aside instead. I unpinned my cloak, quickly working it to its full length. I held it out to her. "Here."

She sat up. "Don't be stupid. Then you'll be cold."

I shrugged. "It wouldn't be the first time."

She stared at me. "Always such a gentleman," she said finally. She sounded exasperated.

She took the fabric. She turned it over in her hands, and frowned. "It feels odd," she said. "As if it's heavier than it should be. No, not heavier. More like ... darker. Not the color, I mean." She ran the cloth through her fingers. "It's almost like it's not a cloak at all. Like its ... a sliver of the night sky." She gave an embarrassed laugh, her hand flying to her mouth. "Gods above, what a foolish thing to say."

I stared at her. "It's not foolish at all," I said quietly.

She snorted and shook her head. "Listen to me. Like some doe-eyed village girl, swooning over Kvothe the Arcane and his cloak made of shadows."

"I'd never mistake you for doe-eyed," I said, smiling.

She cocked her head at me. "A woman could take offense at that."

I blushed. "I meant it as a compliment."

She smiled too then, slowly. There was something wicked about it. Playful. Secret. She looked down at my cloak. "Why don't we share?"

She threw it around my shoulders and curled up against me. Slowly, she molded her body to mine. She was warm and solid and impossibly soft. She buried her fingers in my shirt. She made a soft, contented noise in the back of her throat. "Mmm, that's better." She wriggled, rearranging her skirts.

I froze, cursing myself for a fool. I should have kept my wits about me, shouldn't have let things come this far. I couldn't protect her if she ran from me now. "Denna, I -" I steeled myself, preparing to say ... something. Something about not deserving her, about having nothing to offer.

"Shhh," she whispered. She rolled over, straddling my hips. She covered my mouth with her hand. She pressed her forehead to mine. "Let's just ... breathe."

Her voice was earnest, even desperate. I could feel her trembling. She wasn't just cold. She was afraid.

I didn't know how to comfort her. I was afraid too.

I closed my eyes and breathed her in deeply, slowly. She smelled faintly of perfuming scents, sandalwood and jasmine. Underneath that, I could smell road dust and sweat. I rested my forehead against her chest. She sighed. I placed my hands on her hips and nuzzled her throat. My fingers strummed the laces at the small of her back.

Her chest rose and fell, faster now. My heart fluttered in my chest. I could barely hold my thoughts together.

She shifted, pressing herself warmly against me, and my last shred of self-control vanished. I buried a hand in the loose tangles of her hair and crushed her mouth to mine. She gasped quietly, her legs clenching around my hips.

We became a tangle of tongues and limbs, of bare skin and little moans. I lifted her off of me and laid her down on the soft forest floor. I pressed my body against hers and kissed her long and slow, sweet and short. It was a dizzy duet with an ever-changing tempo. _Legato_, _accelerando_, _crescendo_-and refrain. That night I gave her something no other man had ever offered her, a love that gave instead of took.

Afterwards, we lay naked beneath my shaed, and spoke of nothing. We pointed out constellations and sang the choruses of half-remembered songs. We spoke too, haltingly, of things we'd lost, things we wish we'd never learned. She spoke of summers by the ocean and an old stone house with blue shutters. I spoke of songs around the campfire and the jolt of wagons on the road.

She told me her name. It was a long name, a name of many parts. The sort of name that could burden a soul. It tasted strange on my tongue, after years of knowing her as Denna. But it also tasted good, like a bite from one of the thick-skinned spinefruits the traders bring through Tarbean from the southern coast of Yll. I used to filch them from wide-mouthed barrels as the sailors emptied their holds. I told Denna all of this, and she laughed.

We slept, and woke, and made love again. We clung to each other as if each brittle, perfect second was the last we would ever share. And it was.


	4. So Bright it Blinds

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><p><strong>CHAPTER FOUR<strong>

_So Bright It Blinds_

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><p>Rain rolled in halfway through the night. It was the sort of sluggish autumn drizzle that seeps into your bones, leaving you chilled and weary and thoroughly disillusioned with romantic notions about sleeping under the stars. I huddled beneath my shaed, just out of reach of the dripping hemlocks and the bitter wind. I turned over in my sleep and reached blindly for Denna, unconsciously seeking her warmth.<p>

I woke with my fingers buried knuckle-deep in the damp earth. Denna was gone.

I stumbled to my feet, half awake and half-wild with panic. It was still dark. The trees around me were dim shadows, barely discernible against the overwhelming blackness of the sky. The cold, damp wind turned my skin to gooseflesh. I fumbled for my shirt and trousers and dressed hastily, wincing at the feel of the damp cloth against my bare skin. I did not bother with my boots. The underbrush was no trouble for my city-hardened feet.

I cursed my eyes roundly as I waited for them to adjust to the darkness. "Denna?" I whispered. I was answered by silence.

That silence, in itself, was ominous. No deep-throated widowbirds sang out their endless cries, no beetles scuttled underfoot, no crickets chirped. The water-laden trees barely even rustled in the wind.

Then I heard a woman scream. I spun towards the sound, drawing the dagger I kept strapped to my leg.

I stumbled towards the road. I was half-blind in the darkness, and was forced to wave my hands in front of me as I walked in order to avoid impaling myself on the branches that jutted outwards from the tree trunks that surrounded me on all sides. I cringed each time a stone shifted beneath my feet, each time a branch cracked under my weight, certain the racket would bring the Chandrian down upon me where I stood.

The ground beneath my bare feet was suddenly firm, the air before me clear of branches. I'd reached the road. I slunk along it in the direction of the raw scream I'd heard.

It was probably nothing, I told myself. Foxes shrieked like that sometimes. I kept to the edge of the trail. Cold water trickled around my feet as I trudged uphill.

I crested the small hill, then dropped flat on my belly, flinging a hand over my mouth to keep from crying out in shock. A campfire danced not fifty yards ahead, in the center of a straight stretch of road. The fire burned blue at the edges.

I lay flat against the cold, wet ground and stared at the flames. They were here. The Chandrian were here, and they had Denna.

My body clenched. I began to tremble.

I squeezed my eyes shut against a bewildering onslaught of pure, uncontrolled panic. In that moment, I was no longer Kvothe the Arcane, Kvothe the Bloodless. I was a child again, newly orphaned, hiding in a heap of trash as a pack of older boys stumbled along an alleyway in search of prey. They banged bottles and pipes off the walls, slurring obscenities. I could tell from the way they stumbled and swayed that they were high on resin and spirits, hungry for a chase.

Since my escape from Tarbean, I had faced worse than would-be rapists and thugs. I had faced assassins. I had faced an entire army of men. I had faced the draccus, and Felurian, and the Cthaeh. But I had never yet wittingly faced the Seven.

Oh, I had dreamt of this moment, of course. I had dreamt of standing over Cinder as he cowered beneath me, of resting Caesura against his neck. Of striking the fatal blow.

But these were only dreams. I knew the difference. I was no Taborlin the Great. I knew better than anyone that the stories others told of me were nothing more than armor spun of half-truths and lies. They wouldn't really protect me, if it came to blows. If I faced the Chandrian, I would surely die.

Worst of all, my parents would never have justice. What would they say to me, if we met again on the long road? Would my father be disappointed that I had failed? Would my mother weep to know that I had thrown my life away on dreams of revenge?

I pushed these thoughts away savagely, swallowed them down. This wasn't me. This broken, fearful child was a ghost. A shadow. A memory. I had left him in the past, left him to die on the rooftop of a tannery Waterside.

I focused on breathing. In my head, I recited Shehyn's rhyme. _Cyphus bears the blue flame, Stercus is in thrall of iron .._. I repeated it like a litany, until I again felt calm enough to open my eyes.

Then I buried myself in the Heart of Stone, as Abenthy had taught me. I buried myself so deeply I thought I might never emerge again. I was stone itself. I was silence. I was death.

I felt a stillness settle within me. It was the stillness that comes of knowing. I took immeasurable comfort from it.

I heard another scream. This time, it was unmistakably human.

I did the only thing I could think to do. I rose to my feet, scrubbed a few stray tears from my cheeks, and walked straight towards the fire.

I am sure right now you are cursing me for a fool. You think that I walked right into their trap. But you are wrong. Calling it a trap implies that I had some hope of avoiding it. I knew better. The Chandrian knew it too. And so they waited, and I came.

I stepped into the circle of firelight and fixed my gaze on Denna.

She had been forced to her knees before the fire. Her arms were bound behind her at the elbows. Her dress had been cut away at the shoulders, her skirts sliced to shreds. Her hair was unbraided. Her beautiful locks had been shorn away just below her chin. The air was thick with the rotten stench of burning hair.

Her flesh was marked with a half-dozen bloody gashes. They were shallow, surgical. They had been inflicted to make her cry out. To draw me in.

I fought down a wave of nausea. This was how I most often remembered my mother: broken and half-naked, her dark hair cut away. It hurt too much to remember her otherwise: warm and kind, soft hands and soft kisses, smiling. Fair-skinned and fine-boned. I had never before realized how much Denna looked like her.

Cinder stood at Denna's shoulder. The bloodied tip of his grey blade rested against her throat. He was pale and beautiful, just as I remembered. His eyes were pure black, flat and cruel. He said nothing as I approached the fire. He simply watched, his eyes flickering between us curiously. I met his gaze, and his lips twisted into a sliver of white that was nothing like a smile.

Denna's breathing was shallow and pained. Her gaze was unfocused, dazed. "Kvothe," she mumbled. "I'm s...sorry. I just w-went to sit by the water ... for a while. To think."

I stepped closer. I looked directly into her eyes, and willed her to be calm. "Be easy," I said softly. "All will yet be well." She stilled at the look on my face, the sound of my voice. Her body relaxed a fraction. Her breathing slowed.

"A bold promise, Kvothe," Cinder said, "and a foolish one." The savor with which he spoke my name erased any hope I'd had that he knew nothing of my involvement in his affairs in Vintas.

He knelt like water flowing out of a jar. Then he reached out and ran his long, pale fingers through Denna's hair. "She is a pretty thing, this woman of yours," he mused. "Pretty, but ignorant."

I said nothing. I just watched him, silent and expressionless. His flat black eyes narrowed.

"We have been ... chatting, she and I," he said. He dug a finger into a cut at the nape of her neck. She cried out sharply, then clamped her mouth shut. The sound became a muffled whimper.

He frowned at her. "It's very noble of you to try," he said, "but there's really no point in making efforts to hide your pain. The agony I'm going to inflict on you tonight ... frankly, I'll be quite surprised if you even realize you're screaming."

The last trace of color drained from her face. Her eyes rolled back, and she swayed in his arms. He braced her against his chest and wrapped his arms around her like a lover. "Deep breaths," he chided. "It's not any fun if you faint."

She made no effort to breathe. Still, the color crept back into her face.

Once Cinder was certain she was in no danger of fainting, he turned his full attention back to me. "As I was saying," he continued, "we have been getting to know one another. Am I to understand that she knows nothing of me?" He shook his head, and his sharp white smile turned rueful. "You wound me, Kvothe. I thought we were close."

Denna made a small noise of surprise. She tossed her head back to stare from me to him, and back again. She tried to rise to her feet.

"I wouldn't recommend it," Cinder said, and she froze.

His eyes caught on something just over my shoulder. "Ah, my brothers and sisters return from their vigil." I turned, following his gaze. I could not see them yet, but I could smell their stench, the foul odor of decay.

I took a careful half-step forward. This was my best chance to strike Cinder down. Now, before the others arrived. My hand closed around Caesura's hilt, hidden beneath my shaed.

"It's been nearly five years, hasn't it?" Cinder asked.

I went as still as a startled rabbit. For the first time, I realized that he remembered me, not as the arcanist who had destroyed his army, but as the boy who had survived the slaughter of Lord Greyfallow's Men. I looked into his eyes, and in my reflection I saw myself suddenly as he saw me. A child still, not even a man grown. Untried, untempered, with no particular strength or power.

A sliver of fear, cold and sharp, cut through the stillness in my heart. How could he know me? Had he been watching me since that night? Surely not. To what end?

"I suppose that makes this a reunion of sorts," he continued. He threw his arms wide, as if to embrace his companions in the trees. "Cause for celebration!" he cried. "Tonight we shall have a feast." His eyes slid to Denna, then to me. His smile widened.

Three figures stepped out of the darkness. A balding, bearded man. I remembered him from my childhood nightmares. A tall, dour woman, dressed all in grey. She held Roah's reins loosely in one hand. The mare's eyes were white with fear, and yet she made no move to flee. The woman stared into my eyes, and the paralysis I had felt in the road washed over me again. I glanced quickly away, and she smiled.

A second woman stepped forward, naked and pale. Her features were fair, her body ripe and supple, yet she repulsed the eye as surely as Felurian attracted it. I could hardly bear to look upon her face.

She stepped too close. In one smooth motion, I turned and drove my dagger into her stomach. Or at least, I tried. The dagger rusted even as I moved, crumbling to dust before it could cut her skin.

The woman threw back her head and laughed. Her laughter was like the screech of metal on slate.

I stared down at the fistful of rust and fashioned my face into a mask of surprise. So this was the one the Adem called Usnea, whose sign was decay. No mortal steel would ever find its mark against her.

I slid my fingers under the shadow of my cloak, brushing my fingers across Caesura's hilt. It was smooth, cold. Untouched. I fought the sudden urge to smile.

I turned my attention back to Cinder. He and Usnea still laughed. I brushed the rust off of my hands and raised my shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, as if to say this whole exercise bored me.

Cinder's smile fell. He looked me up and down, his black eyes curious.

"This is between us," I said calmly. "Let her go."

"Don't flatter yourself," he sneered. "My orders are to kill her." He shrugged broadly, mimicking me, and flashed his teeth. "Your presence only ensures that I will take my time."

His eyes locked on mine and he reached out again, seizing Denna by the waist. He leaned forward to lap sweat and blood from a long gash on her neck. She moaned and thrashed, rearing in his arms like a captured animal. He tightened his grip on her and gave me a languid smile, his mouth filled with blood.

Blind, overpowering rage crashed through me. I wanted to throw myself at him, to rip his ribcage open with my bare hands and tear out his guts. I wanted it more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. I wanted it even though I knew I would fail, even though I knew Denna would die screaming when I did. I knew he was baiting me, and still I felt my control, my sanity, slipping away from me, like water through a sieve.

I closed my eyes and dove for the stillness in my heart. I seized it the way Felurian had once taught me to seize the moonlight. I simply reached out, and knew that I could hold it in my fist. Once caught, I wrapped it around me like a shroud.

I opened my eyes. Cinder blinked and took a half-step back, surprise plain on his face.

We stared at each other for a long moment. "Why do you do this?" I whispered finally, asking the question that had burned in me since the night my parents died. "Why do you kill those who tell stories of you, or sing your songs?"

He misunderstood me. Or perhaps it would be fairer to say that his reasons differed from those of his master. "I want their pain," he said. "I want to hear them scream as I slice into them. I want to claim their bodies and break their bones. I want to dance in their blood."

"If all you want is pain," I said quietly, "then take mine. I offer myself in her place."

He laughed. "Why would I do that? How can I savor your pain if I know it is given willingly?" His smile was sharp and hungry. "Besides, then I would not have the pleasure of hearing you beg for mercy as I cut her open."

I stiffened. "My mother didn't beg you for anything," I said, remembering the words of the Cthaeh. "And neither will I."

"Ahhh!" Cinder clapped his hands together like a delighted child. "Were you watching then," he crowed, "five years ago, when I tied your mother to that tree? The big oak, by the little stream? When I broke her wrists? When I cut her breasts and arms and hands, until the trunk shone red with her filthy Ruh blood?"

He danced merrily, smooth as quicksilver, barely able to contain his happiness. He ran his fingers down Denna's shoulders and across her breasts. "Did it excite you, boy?" he whispered harshly. "When I claimed your mother like the ravel beast she was, while your father and your uncles and your cousins watched? Is that why you will not beg? Do you hunger to see it again?"

The stillness in me shattered. I threw myself at him.

Usnea seized me by the waist. With one smooth motion, she drove me to my knees. She was impossibly strong. She held me by the shoulders as I twisted uselessly in her grip. Inside, I screamed with rage, a single unending roar. All these years of searching, of studying, of gathering power, and it was over in a single step, over before it had even begun. I glared up at Cinder as he approached, panting in fury.

I spat on his shoes. "Petty," He sneered. "Childish. Weak." He straightened and spread his arms wide, as if to show me what an easy target he was, how pathetic I was for failing to strike him.

"Is this the vengeance of Kvothe the Arcane?" he cried. The others laughed. He kicked me in the face, and I sagged forward. For a moment, the world went dark. I came to, spitting blood.

He leaned in close. His breath was cold and stale. He smelled like ice and iron and blood. "You will beg, in the end," he hissed. "Just like your father begged, when I -"

"_Quickly, Cinder_." Haliax's voice cut through Cinder's like a saw through bone. He stepped out of the shadows, hardly more than shadow himself. "_They come_."

Cinder stepped away from me and cocked his head to the side. Sudden fear crept into his eyes.

I could feel it, too. A change in the air, a prickling on the back of my neck. I was certain we were being watched. This knowing was more than gut instinct. It was physical, like the static charge that makes your hair stand on end before lightning strikes.

"_Kill her now_," Haliax said.

I was powerless, awash in fear and shock, my sleeping mind as hopelessly out of reach to me now as if I had never studied naming at all. I didn't even have the strength to break Usnea's grip. I bucked once in silent, futile protest as Cinder stepped forward and buried his blade in Denna's chest.

I did not struggle then, or cry out. I simply watched her die.

She slid backwards onto the ground, onto her bound wrists, then onto her side. Blood pooled outwards from her heart in a wide circle, staining her bodice an opulent red. She didn't try to speak. She just stared down at the hole in her chest, then up at me, her mouth a perfect O of surprise. Her face slackened. Her gaze clouded over.

I watched with empty, unseeing eyes. In some deep corner of my mind, I knew I was in shock. I embraced it utterly. For a moment, all was perfectly, blessedly still.

Then lightning struck the road, a column of pure light. The force of it threw me to the ground. The air screamed as if it had been split open.

Thrown free of Usnea, I staggered dizzily to my feet. I stumbled forward, half-blinded and deeply confused. There was something ... I struggled to think through the morass of my mind. _Denna._ I needed to save Denna.

"_To me_," Haliax called. Usnea ran towards his reaching arms, stepped into his shadow, and was gone. The others followed quickly behind.

Cinder was the last to enter Haliax's embrace. He took a single step forward, then paused. He turned to me, and smiled.

Somewhere in my mind, I felt something snap. "Ferula," I sang, and my voice was ice and iron and blood. It was a vise around his heart, tendrils of fire lashing at his skin.

He fell to his knees, writhing in agony. He opened his mouth to speak and I sang his name again. His throat and lungs filled with the feel of a thousand ants, crawling and biting and frantic. He choked, clutching at his throat.

I walked forward. I was as calm now as the sky before a storm, filled with terrible purpose. He mouthed wordlessly at me, his black eyes desperate and pleading.

I knelt before him, and looked behind his eyes.

In that one single moment, I discovered more of the Chandrian than I had learned in all my years of searching.

I learned that Lanre had assembled the Seven after Iax's imprisonment, after Lyra's death. He had chosen them from among his highest-ranked generals, his most trusted advisors. They were each as different as daylight and darkness, as river and stone, but all had two things in common. They were reckoned the greatest of men, and they had no gift for naming. They ruled by the sword.

Lanre had assembled them beyond the walls of Emlen, at the Stone Circles, where Cinder had once held court. Cinder had worn a different name then, of course, a different face. He still wore the face occasionally, when it pleased him. The dribble of power he had left to him still allowed him that small amusement, at least. But he was not the same man now that he had been that day. Not by half.

Yes, Lanre had assembled them beyond the walls of Emlen. There he had shown them what the Cthaeh had revealed to him. He had shown them how to kindle within themselves that feeble scrap of power innate to all men. How to forge it into a fire so bright it blinded.

He had shown them how to shape.

Such power. Such promise. Even now, Cinder remembered what it had meant to them then. They could protect the living. They could seek justice for the dead. They could end the unending war. In exchange for this gift, Lanre had said, they had only to help him cast Selitos from his throne. They had only to set fire to Myr Tariniel.

They had all agreed, of course they had agreed. Hundreds of cities had already fallen. What was one more, or seven? The world was broken. It was on its knees. Surely it was better to strike the final blow, to end the suffering of man? To forge a new empire from the ashes of the old?

They had not known then the price that they would pay. By shaping the world to their purpose, they had bound themselves to it. If they were killed, if their souls were sent beyond the doors of death, they would simply return, drawn always back to the mortal world.

It was terribly ironic, of course. Lanre wished so fervently to destroy the world. To him it was a broken thing, cankerous and cruel. And yet he, too, was tied to it forever by the power of his name. He could never be free of it. Not in sleep, not even in madness.

Cinder was luckier than him, in this. Time had broken him. He knew it, and he was glad of it. His only purpose now, his only pleasure, was pain. He was a rabid creature, driven through the infinite days by an all-consuming hunger.

Such hunger ... Gods, he ached with it. Hunger to claim, to possess, to destroy. To gorge. To sate.

I jerked back, and the connection between us snapped. I felt sick.

For a moment, we simply watched each other. Then, because I could not kill him, I unmade him.

It was a simple thing, really. As simple as cutting a shape from cloth, then stitching the pieces back together. I cut, and stitched, and he simply failed to exist. There was no dust left behind, no footstep to mark his passing. He was simply gone.

I wonder now at the power that possessed me in that moment. At the time, it had seemed as natural as breathing. He was a cruel, mad thing, and the world was better without him. And so it must be.

I looked up. For the first time that night, I became aware of my own awareness. The world was a book laid out before me, a story half-written, a song half-sung. I saw it all, and yet I felt entirely separate from it. My knowing rode on my brow like a white star, as sharp and sweet as it had been in Felurian's meadow.

Haliax was gone. Denna lay at my feet.

Denna. I knelt at her side. I straightened her ragged skirts and brushed her hair back from her face. Even in death, she was beautiful. But I could not stand to see her so, bound and slashed and broken. So I spoke the name of rope, and her bindings fell away. I spoke the name of blood, and it flowed back into her body, clean and warm and rich with oxygen. I spoke the name of flesh, and healed her wounds. I spoke the name of cloth, and her dress was whole again, untorn and unstained. Still, she did not stir.

I touched her cheek. A drop of water fell onto her forehead, and I realized I was weeping. Here was one who deserved life.

I smiled suddenly. This was a gift I could give. She had barely passed the doors of death. Her body was still warm and soft, a vessel waiting to be filled.

I rested one hand upon her brow and the other upon her chest, just above her silent heart.

"Stop, Kvothe."

The voice was like thunder and song, beautiful and powerful and strangely familiar. I ignored it. This was no time for conversation. I had to save Denna, while my power was still upon me. I closed my eyes and focused on the steady beat of my own heart.

"You must stop," the voice insisted again. "This is not the way of the world. It is wrong."

I glanced up, mild irritation breaking through the calm of my sleeping mind. The creature who had spoke was wreathed in white flame, blinding to look upon. I could not see his face. The fire formed great semi-circles, like the curve of a bird's folded wings. The angel - for surely this was an angel - held a hand out towards me, and his gesture was both supplication and command.

A stab of surprise cut through my calm. I had always dismissed angels as myth. They belonged in the stories that simple village priests told simple village folk.

In hindsight, I should have known better. Skarpi and Felurian had both spoken of Tehlu and his angels, and the part they had played in the Creation War. In their stories, the angels had once been men, Namers like Selitos. Nina, too, had spoken of the angels. She'd said they brought her dreams of the vase the Mauthen family had found, so that she could paint it for me.

I eyed the lightning scars that split the trees along the road. Vaguely I recalled, as if in a dream, that Marten had invoked the angels before lightning struck Cinder's camp in Vintas. _In Andan's name_, he had prayed,_ watch over me. _Dedan had described the lightning as many strikes in quick succession, like a column of fire. Hadn't Skarpi described the angels as creatures of white fire, just like the creature before me now?

I shook my head slowly, casting my eyes back down to Denna. None of that mattered now. All that mattered was that Denna was slipping away from me. I needed to bring her back quickly, or she would be lost to me forever.

I looked up at the creature before me. "This woman should live," I said. "Her life is a gift to the world. She is light in the darkness. She is safe harbor in a stormy sea."

I could not see the creature's face, but I could hear disapproval in his tone. "She is only a woman," he said dismissively.

"No," I said, "she is everything."

The creature sighed. Obviously he disagreed, but he sensed the uselessness of the debate. "She is at peace beyond the mortal realm. You cannot claim to do this for her own good. What then justifies what you do here today? Shaping the world to your will? Destroying one creature and creating another? What justifies the price you pay to claim mastery over life and death?"

"Love," I said firmly.

The angel sighed again, as if he had heard this many times before. "Love is not wise, Kvothe, no matter what men say. It is selfish. It is impulsive and proud."

I considered this. "I have been called all these things, and worse. I will be called worse still, in days to come. It matters little to me. If I can save her, then I must."

The angel's fire flared. I sensed his fury. Strangely, I sensed he was also disappointed. It rankled me that he should feel that way. Why should he have any say in how I felt, in what I did?

"We had hoped ..." The angel started, then fell silent. When he spoke again, his voice was tired and thin. "Is there nothing I can say that will change your mind?"

"No," I replied. My voice reverberated with power. "There is nothing. I will not be moved."

Another long silence. "Very well," he said finally.

He stepped forward and touched my left hand. His touch was gentle, and yet it seared like fire. I yanked my hand away. I stared at my palm, puzzled. I did not understand.

"This is our curse upon you," he explained quietly. "Ours is the first price you will pay, and the least of the three."

I turned away. "Fine," I said shortly. "Then your part is done. Leave me to my task."

The darkness crashed around me again. I was finally alone. My hand trembled. It ached where the angel had touched me.

My vision danced with afterimages of the angel's light as I again placed my hands over Denna's brow and heart. I closed my eyes and concentrated on her. Not the body lying before me, but the woman I loved.

I sang her name, cautious and wild.

The ache in my hand was worse than I had thought, or perhaps it was worsening. It spread outwards, like fire in my veins, lancing up my arm and through my chest. Blackness gathered at the corners of my vision.

_No._ Not yet. I sang Denna's name again, bold and sweet.

The world pitched around me. The pain infiltrated every corner of my body. It felt like the pins and needles that prick your muscles when they are deprived too long of blood, except that it was more intense, and everywhere at once. Every movement increased the pain tenfold.

I shouted her name one last time, angry and longing.

I groaned. My body arched off the ground, taut as a lute string. I jerked once more as the tendrils of pain pierced my brain, and all was blackness.


	5. Seven

_**One more major spoiler alert:** From one end to the other, this chapter is nothing but rampant fan speculation. Some of that speculation is almost certainly correct, meaning this chapter probably contains some spoilers for _Doors of Stone_ (though much of it, of course, is utter nonsense). Don't say I didn't warn you._

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><p><strong>CHAPTER FIVE<strong>

_Seven_

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><p>I woke to full darkness. Awareness returned slowly, in painful jolts. It was not the faultless, fragile awareness of my sleeping mind, such as I had known after Denna died. It was simply an awareness of where I was, and what had happened, and what I had done.<p>

Above all, I was aware of pain. My hand ached as though nails had been pounded through it, as though all twenty-seven bones were breaking. I held it out before me in the darkness. It dangled limply at the end of my wrist. I couldn't move it at all. I cradled it against my chest and curled into a ball. I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain, and tried very hard to think of nothing.

I drifted for a while. My thoughts twirled like a leaf in the wind, never settling. I wondered idly how long I had slept. It might have been hours, or even days. I was weak with hunger, dizzy with it, but that didn't bother me. Hunger was an old companion of mine. I could ignore it. Thirst, though ... It was the thirst that woke me fully in the end.

My body craved water. My skull pounded. Regretfully, I cracked my eyes open and glanced around. I knew we were near a river, but I couldn't remember where it was. I felt foggy, heavy, thick.

Denna was sprawled in the road beside the scattered remains of the Chandrian's fire. Her eyes were closed. Her skin was sallow, her body stiff and lifeless.

She couldn't be dead, I thought blankly. Not now. Not after everything.

I crawled to her side and leaned over her. My heart was suddenly thundering in my chest. I could hardly breathe.

She exhaled, and I nearly fainted with relief. Whatever else might come, whatever price I'd paid, I had done this. I had carried her from the doors of death.

The triumph that slammed through me faded as quickly as it had come. Why hadn't she woken? I touched her face with my uninjured hand. "Denna?" I rasped.

I shook her lightly. She didn't stir. I started to tremble.

"No. Please, no," I whispered.

"Let her sleep, Kvothe. She is simply weary. She will wake soon enough."

My aching body failed me as I turned towards the voice, and I fell heavily onto my side.

Haliax waited at the edge of the road, a careful distance from me.

Seeing him was an almost physical shock. I had recognized him instantly, of course, by the tilt and timbre of his voice. I heard it in my nightmares. I knew it better even than I knew my father's. Were it not for that voice, however, I would not have recognized him at all, for the shadows around his face had fallen.

It had never occurred to me to wonder what the man called Haliax looked like beneath his cloak of shadows. To tell the truth, I had never really even thought of him as a man at all. If I had stopped to consider it, I might have guessed he was old and withered, warped and scarred.

But Haliax, who was once called Lanre, who was a hero of men, was none of these things. He seemed young, barely a decade older than me. He was dark and beautiful. He had full lips and wide cheekbones. Black curls framed deep, slanted eyes. His face was strong and solemn, the sort men would follow into war.

He watched me intently from the far side of the road. "I see the surprise in your face. Did you think it was impossible for me to lift my veil?" He didn't wait for me to answer. "You are correct, of course. This face is only an illusion, a glamour. A shadow of what was. Still, it is more true to me than my hame."

He took a cautious step forward. He approached me the way a hunter might approach a wounded animal. "It wearies me to show myself to you in this way. I do not enjoy it. I do it as a gift to you, a gesture of my good will."

A dismal noise escaped my throat, a snort of disbelief followed by a whimper of pain. He froze. It was a perfect, unnatural stillness, the stillness of stone. In that moment he might have been a statue, and not a man at all.

To be honest, he cut a striking figure in that moment, well worthy of a statue. He wore armor wrought of giant scales. The sword at his waist was pure black steel. His cloak was lined with red silk, pinned together by a ruby-studded brooch that nestled in the hollow of his throat.

That was odd. He was dressed for ceremony, not for battle. I puzzled over this for a moment, then dismissed it. What did it matter whether he killed me wearing silk or wool?

Still, I could not understand why he was being so cautious, so seemly. Surely he had only returned here to kill me, to seek vengeance for Cinder's death. But if that were the case, then why ...

A reason came to me, unbidden. Unbearable. I shoved it down. No, not that. Better to die. I would rather ... I wanted ...

I lay back against the ground, my astonishment at his sudden appearance and puzzling manner dimming quickly in the face of my agony and thirst. He took another step towards me, then another. I watched him approach with an increasingly mild, incoherent curiosity.

He knelt at my side. "You are not yourself," he said. I could hear concern in his voice, but his face was a wooden mask.

The stillness of his features reminded me of the Adem. It made sense, of course. What purpose could facial expressions serve for a man who face was hidden by shadows? I blinked up at him, briefly fascinated. I wondered how long it had taken him to lose that shred of humanity within him, the desire to distort his face to express his feelings.

The pain in my hand swelled again, shooting up my arm and tightening my chest. My mind drifted once more, and I found myself gazing at the intricate gold knotwork in his brooch. My eyes circled it lazily. I felt his gaze on me. Heavy, grave. I didn't like it. I looked away.

"I need to speak with you, Kvothe. I need you to focus." Haliax pressed a gauntleted hand against my shoulder and my body spasmed, betraying my disgust. Part of me wanted to crawl away from him, to escape, but the larger part simply couldn't find the will. I was just so weary of it all, weary unto death.

I rolled my head to the side so that I wouldn't have to look into his eyes._ Leave me in peace_, I thought. _Leave me to Denna, to my thirst and my pain. Leave me to die_.

But he persisted. "Your mind wanders, Kvothe. It mustn't. You must focus, you must return to me." He shook me. "Kvothe? _Kvothe_."

He seized my jaw in a sudden burst of fury. He yanked upwards, forcing me to my knees. I struggled against his bruising grip, but he gave no ground. "Be still," he commanded. He looked into my eyes, and his gaze was a fist around my heart. I sat frozen, utterly transfixed. I felt suddenly that he knew me, down to my blood and bones.

"You are thirsty," he declared. He untied a waterskin from his belt and shoved it towards me. "Drink."

His words moved in me like thunder, an inescapable command. My will was suddenly not my own. I seized the waterskin between my knees and wrenched the plug away. I upended it over my lips and gulped the water down. It spilled over the rim and splashed onto my shirt. I didn't care. I didn't care that it was warm and tasted of leather. I didn't care if it was poisoned. I didn't care if my stomach cramped. I needed it, like I needed to breathe.

Haliax's expression darkened as he watched me drink.

"This broken creature before me," he spat suddenly, "this is not Kvothe. This is not the son whose blood holds the key to lockless door. This is not my final hope." His face betrayed nothing, but his voice was bitter with fury. "This is the Singers' doing. What curse have they laid upon you, that they have laid you so low?"

I lowered the waterskin and blinked at him numbly. Then I stared down at my aching hand.

His brow creased into the tiniest frown. "Your hand?" he said. He grabbed my wrist. I cried out in protest and tried to pull away. He gripped me harder and cuffed the side of my head, like a father admonishing a wayward child. I sat upright, rigid with shock. "I told you to be still," he snapped.

He turned my palm over. I couldn't feel his touch. He kneaded my palm and joustled my fingers. My hand flopped uselessly in his grip, unresponsive. He shook his head.

"Why this?" he murmured. His eyes were suddenly bright and curious. He gave me a considering look, then unclasped the brooch at his throat and jammed it through the center of my palm. I didn't even flinch.

He returned the brooch to his throat. "An injured hand?" he wondered aloud. "How is that your sign?"

I said nothing. I didn't have to. His eyes lit up with sudden understanding. "Ah. Your lute. You cannot play it like this, yes?"

I choked back a sob as I tugged my hand away. He was right, of course. I would never play again.

My greatest fear, realized. Tears welled up behind my eyes. My throat closed. My body shook with the effort it took not to howl at his feet.

"The singer whose sign is silence," Haliax said. He nodded. "You will carry the bitterness of that irony with you through all the millenia you live, Seventh."

_Seventh_. I stiffened. I had realized by then, of course, what I was. What I had become. But I denied it all the same, as if my denial meant something, as if by denying it now I could undo what I had done.

I stared at him, my expression stricken. "I am not -" I whispered hoarsely, then stopped. He waited, patient as a priest.

"I am not one of the Chandrian," I said finally. "I am nothing like you." But my voice sounded small, petulant, even to me.

Haliax cocked his head to the side. "You are a Shaper, are you not? Did you not destroy my brother, and bring your lover back from death? Shaping may not define us, Kvothe, but it _is _the source of our power. It is the tie that binds you to me, that binds us to this world. Surely you know this, having seen into Cinder's mind."

I shook my head in childish protest.

His jaw clenched. "Willful ignorance does not become you," he said shortly. "You act like some villager's get, some swineherder's swill, closing your eyes to the truth because you do not like the look of it. This sudden cowardice is a disgrace to your blood. At least your mother-"

He cut off abruptly. He shifted, then stilled. I watched with morbid fascination as he arranged his features once more into a careful mask. I wondered what fury, what torment, hid behind that perfect semblance of calm. We stared at each other in silence for a long moment.

When he spoke again, his voice held no hint of anger. "What did you think we were, Kvothe? Demons? Fae? Surely you know better. We are older than the Fae. We created it."

His words shocked me out of my stupor. "No, you didn't." I said. "You are Lanre. You fought with the Namers. You defied Iax. You helped bind him behind the doors of stone."

His eyes widened a fraction. He rocked back on his heels, blinking at me owlishly. There was a long pause.

"Ah," he said finally. His expression became distant. "Ah. I see."

He stood and strode away. He paused at the edge of the road, a statue once again. The only movement was the careful sweep of his palm across the pommel of his sword.

"I thought you already knew the truth," he said slowly, "but it seems I still have secrets left to tell." His voice was so quiet that I could hardly say I'd heard him speak at all. And yet each word fell heavy on my heart, like a hammer striking iron.

He turned and walked towards me again. He had none of Cinder's grace. He moved stiffly, as if he were an old man. Which, I suppose, he was.

He lowered himself onto a log and held his hand out over the spent coals. He muttered a binding, and the fire danced merrily once more. It brought me up short. I thought of sympathy as ordinary, commonplace magic. Watching the Lord of the Seven use it was a bit like watching him weed a garden, or sweep a floor. It just didn't seem right.

Haliax looked up at me, and there was nothing common about his gaze. The flames danced in his eyes, unknowable and ancient. "Come here, Kvothe. Still and listen, and learn the truth that others die for telling."

I stumbled to my feet and walked towards him without hesitation. I sat at Denna's side and placed my hand in hers. Then I looked up at the man who had ordered my parents' death, the man I had hunted for five long years.

"Tell me," I said, and he smiled. It was the first true expression I had seen on his face.

"The first thing you must understand," he said, "is that I am not simply Lanre. If you still believe that to be the case, then you never heard your father's song in full.

"Yes, I am Lanre, but I am also Iax. Or at least I bear some shadow of his name, and some shadow of his power. The small fraction of him that remains within this world, that is not imprisoned beyond the doors of stone, lies within me. The story of how that came to be so ... well, that is a long story, and perhaps it is one for another day. Suffice to say that Lanre had no power to name, to shape. He was a swordsman only, a soldier." He fingered the brooch at his throat. It was an absent, unconscious gesture, strangely tender. The tight anger in his voice faded. "A fool."

Softly he recited,

"Upon his road our pilgrim finds

the Cthaeh, knower of man's mind.

Though begs he of her healing flower,

she sets him on the path to power.

For tender mem'ry will endure,

The journey to the lockless door ..."

He looked over at me and shrugged apologetically. "That particular poet did not have your father's gift for words. That was doubly true after Cinder cut out her tongue."

He looked down at me, and his gaze was hard. "This is what you do not understand, Kvothe. Hear my words, and know them to be true. The Seven are the shapers, the sons and daughters of Iax.

"You have heard stories of the Creation War. You know some of what we wrought in those days, for good and ill. I admit that we were sometimes careless with our power, unwise. We were only men, and men are weak.

"But look what we _created_, Kvothe. We created the Fae, a world where all was possible, where all was perfect. We created creatures to inhabit that world, the perfect beings. They were everything we could never be. They were beautiful and proud, powerful and free. They were eternally true to themselves. They lived unburdened by fear of consequence."

His voice was raw with emotion. "We did not start the Creation War. We would have lived in the Fae in peace, far from the eyes of men, if the Namers had let us." His gestured angrily at the fire, the forest, the whole world. "Why live in this mortal world at all? What is there here to love? There is no beauty to this place. It has no symmetry, no grace, no reason. It is ugly and hateful and cruel. Its very existence offends me."

_Hateful and cruel_, I thought. Yes, the world was all these things, and worse. I knew that better than most. I knew it because of him.

I stared down at Denna, and fought back the urge to cry. It was his fault, I thought bitterly. His fault that I hated so deeply. His fault that my life, such as it was, had been violent and empty and hungry and cold. It was his fault that I was sitting here now. That I had made this choice.

His fault.

I sat bolt upright. For the first time, I understood.

This is what he'd wanted.

"You -" I started, then stopped. I could hardly bear to think the words, much less speak them.

It took all my courage to meet his eyes. "You let me live," I said. "The day you ... the day my family ..." I faltered.

"Ah," Haliax hissed softly. "Now, finally, there is honesty between us. Yes, Kvothe. I let you live, the day your family died. And I did more than that. Far more. I watched you struggle to survive, alone in the woods. I watched you cut your teeth on the other street orphans in that cesspool of humanity they call a city. I watched you cheat your way into the University, watched you grow into your power. And when the time was right, I ordered Cinder to offer your lover a writ of patronage."

Seeing my astonishment, he explained. "I led Cinder to Denna, that she might lead you to me. That her death might force you to claim the power that is your birthright. Her song was never truly a threat to us, Kvothe. Indeed, it was of my own devising."

He looked down at her, his expression soft. "To tell you the truth," he admitted, "I've looked forward to hearing it for some time. I've always harbored a somewhat childish desire to take my narrative back. The Singers made such admirable work of it, you see, when they invented the Tehlin church."

His smile soured. "All the mortals of this world, worshipping Tehlu and his angels as gods. What folly."

I stared at him in confusion, utterly lost. "She didn't recognize him," I said.

"I beg your pardon?" he said politely.

"Denna. She didn't recognize him. Here, by the fire. When he ..."

"That is no great mystery. Would you have recognized me before this night?"

I blinked and straightened. "Oh."

He nodded. "Cinder's talent for glamourie far exceeded my own. It is a Fae magic, and he was more Fae than man. Of course, none of us could ever truly be called either." He shrugged. "Cinder enjoyed a high appointment in the Maer's court for many years. I believe you even met him, during your time there. He went by the name of Bredon."

"Bredon?" I choked. Bredon was Master Ash, was Cinder? I shook my head violently. No. That was impossible. I would have known, I would have realized.

I felt cold. Could I have played tak with Denna's torturer, with my parent's killer, and not known him? Could I have considered him a friend?

Haliax pressed on, ignoring my stricken expression. "Cinder's influence in Vintas contributed much to our cause. Though it was a challenge at times to keep his ... appetites ... hidden." He gave me a disapproving look. "You will forgive me if I do not thank you for your rather dramatic solution to that particular problem. I would not have bothered to kill the girl if I had known your thirst for vengeance would suffice to force your hand. I was rather fond of Cinder, you know, in spite of his little cruelties. He had a poet's sensibilities, and a rather extraordinary talent for strategy."

I swallowed against the bile in my throat. It was all too much. I was not sure anymore that I wanted to know these things. And yet curiosity still burned in me, hot and vicious. No, I did not want to know. But I needed to.

I tried to make sense of Haliax's words, but I couldn't. It was like trying to put together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. "I don't understand," I said finally. "I was just a child. A trouper. I was no one. Why single me out, why draw me in?" I cradled my head in my hand. "What was the point of it all?" I whispered.

He made a frustrated gesture. "You still do not know your own importance. You inherited all the cleverness of your blood. All the arrogance. All the power. And yet none of the knowledge." He pressed his fingers to his temple. "Your mother is to blame for your ignorance," he said shortly. "She never even told you her name."

I looked up, furious. "Laurian," I snarled. "Her name was Laurian." I searched his face for some sign of remorse, of pity. I found none.

His lip curled into a sneer. "_Laurian_. A trouper's name, worn by a woman who could have been queen. It was not her birth name. It was not even worthy of her."

I picked up a stick and poked angrily at the fire. It stung me deeply to learn that he knew more of my mother's family than I did. It stung me to hear him speak of her so fondly, he who had ordered her death. "What does it matter what name she was born with?" I muttered. "It never mattered to her."

"What does it _matter_?" he hissed. I saw in his eyes the desire I had seen so many times before, in the eyes of city guards and street orphans and rich lordlings alike. The desire to strike, to hurt, to maim. I leaned away. "You foolish. Ignorant. _Child_. Have you not yet realized? It is the only important thing about you."

His fists clenched and unclenched, just once. Then he became a statue once more. Perfectly still, perfectly calm. This time, he did not move for several minutes. I fought the insane urge to wave a hand in front of his face, so distant and lifeless was his expression.

He moved again, and I startled. He looked down at me with empty eyes. "I do not blame you for your ignorance, Kvothe," he said formally. "Blame is petty. It is a mortal weakness, and mortals are fools."

A pause. "What I meant to say is that you do not understand how essential you are to our cause. The ancient knowledge has scattered over the centuries. The ancient bloodlines have thinned. There has been only one other like you, these long years. One other who gave us cause to hope." His eyes flicked over me, and he smiled faintly. "Your cousin, truth be told, though like you he denounces his name. Those changing eyes, green as grass, they always give your blood away ..."

He sighed heavily. "I discovered Elodin too late. He was already Chancellor at the University by the time we met. Young, yet still too old. Too soft, too ... pure. Still, I had some hope of converting him to our cause. He had such extraordinary power. Greater than your own, or at least more predictable.

"He had the power to shape, even the knowledge of it, but he denied himself the pleasure of its use. He was enamored of the namers, just like the rest of you. I attempted to force his hand. I killed his lover, as I killed yours. She was a student of his, if I recall correctly. A pretty girl, naive. I gave him the chance to save her. I explained what must be done. But he refused. He was too clever, too proud, too selfish by half. He knew the price, and he would not pay."

He shook his head. His expression was almost wistful, as if he were recalling a friend long out of touch. "I have heard it said that her death drove him mad. The ones who say that do not understand. It was the choice that drove him mad. The choice to let her die, when she might have lived."

I stared dumbly at my hands. I couldn't think of anything to say.

He looked over at me. "I even lost my faith in you, for a time," he said. "All those years you lived in that seaside city ... You were hardly more than an animal, hiding on rooftops, hiding behind the doors of your mind. If the Singers hadn't placed Skarpi in your path ..."

His laughter was a dry rattle. "They were fools to do it, of course. I do not believe they would have dared, if they had known who your mother was." He paused, reconsidering. "Then again, perhaps they would have tried anyway. It is quite boring, you know, all this endless living. Sometimes I think our hearts yearn for conflict, just to pass the centuries."

His eyes wandered the forest. "I suppose it is no surprise they tried to win you to their cause. Illien has always felt a kinship with your kind, for all the obvious reasons." He shook his head. "He is a romantic at heart. I think he found it poetic to imagine that a son of the Ruh might discover the Singer's power within himself and use it seek justice against the ones who had wronged him.

"In this, he overestimated your sense of justice, and underestimated your sense of vengeance." He eyed me sternly. "That is the trouble with believing in faerie stories, Kvothe. You are constantly disappointed."

He fell silent. I watched the fire, and said nothing.

In a horrible way, the silence was almost companionable. I had been driven to seek this man, this creature, for almost as long as I could remember. But my anger towards him had flared blue-white this night and faded fast, leaving me raw and hollow.

Haliax watched me, still as stone, head cocked slightly to the side. The wind picked up, and I listened as it whispered through the trees. Once, I could have played that sound on my lute. No longer.

I shuddered. The silence surrounding us suddenly seemed too deep to me, as unnatural as Haliax's stillness. I couldn't stand it. I opened my mouth and asked the first question that came to my head, simply for something to say.

"What is your curse?"

He stared at me. "Have you not guessed?" he said stiffly. He sounded hurt that I had asked. "The doors of the mind are forever closed to me. I cannot die, nor sleep, nor forget, nor seek solace in madness."

"Oh." I stared at my useless left hand and wondered which was worse - to be awake for all eternity, or to never play music again.

I was reminded of my own tiredness, my own pain. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to curl up next to Denna and wait for her to wake. I lay back against the ground. My eyes fell shut.

"Kvothe." Haliax's voice was apologetic, almost tender. "There is one more thing we must discuss."

I shook my head wearily. _Gods no, let me sleep_.

"I will let you sleep," he said, "after you have heard your assignment."

My eyes snapped back open. "My what?"

"Your assignment," he repeated. "You have taken Cinder's place. He was assigned a task. I am passing it on to you."

I sat up. "What task?" I said warily.

"Assassinate the king of Vintas."

I blinked up at him. Surely he was not serious. "God's body," I breathed. "What for?"

He smiled faintly at my expression. "Cinder enjoyed playing politics in the Maer's court. Exacerbating the tenuous political situation in Vintas was one of his many hobbies, one of the few I approved of. You know something of his business with the tax collectors, of course. But that was merely a passing fancy. He did more, far more. He killed Alaitis. He would have killed Ariel, too, had she not gone into hiding."

His voice was suddenly cold. "That was a distasteful business, what he did to that child. If I had known of it before her disappearance, I would have put a stop to it." He stared at the fire for a moment, then sighed deeply. "Well, it does not matter now. I suppose it must suffice that I did not tell him when you found her."

"What?" I said stupidly.

"The princess," he said. "Your lost girl. The girl with the sunlight hair." He gave me an intent look. "You truly didn't know?"

I was driven speechless. I shook my head numbly. "How curious," he said idly. Then he waved it away with a simple gesture, as if the idea that Auri was a runaway princess - a _princess! _Kist and crayle - was merely a passing fancy. "Well, that is beside the point. The point is that a change in the balance of power serves our interests. It places a particular parcel of the Lackless lands back in the possession of Meluan Lackless."

I gave him a blank look. "And that matters because ... ?"

"It matters because the Lackless lands hold the lockless door, and the lockless door holds Iax." He looked at me, and he smiled widely for the first time. "And now I hold the Lackless heir, and the Lackless heir holds the key."

For the first time since I saw Haliax standing in the road, I was well and truly afraid.

"No," I whispered.

"No?"

"I will not do it. I will not open the door."

Haliax laughed then, incredulous. "After all you have seen, are you truly still under the delusion that you have a choice?"

He stood. Then he whispered my name.

"_Maedre_."

I folded in half. The pain I had felt before was nothing compared to this. His fist punched through my chest, tangled my intestines, rearranged my guts. I was broken, I was shattered, I was a thousand tiny pieces scattered all across the world. My limbs jerked wildly. I screamed and screamed.

He released me after a minute, or perhaps it was an eternity. I sagged into the dirt, gasping for air.

"The pain is just a warning," he said softly. "I can compel you, if I must. Now stand."

I knew instantly that I must obey. Still, I tried to resist. The urge only grew stronger. It pounded at me like waves against a rocky shore. stand stand _STAND STAND STAND_. I staggered drunkenly to my feet and was immediately filled with the most intense pleasure. I fell to my knees, and vomited.

"Do you understand?" Haliax asked. And I did.

He knelt again and placed something across my knees. Cinder's sword, white-grey and vicious and cold to the touch. It was stained with Denna's blood. He rested a hand upon my shoulder. "Your life is mine now, your purpose ours. You _will_ do this, whether you will it or not. You will do it before this span has passed. You will do it with this sword. You will do it in Imre, in the courtyard by the fountain, by the husk of the building they once called the Eolian. You will do it when the King comes to the city to retrieve his daughter, who has been lost but will yet be found. And you will stand with your brothers and sisters when you do, so that the torches on the street burn blue and the folk of your miserable city gag on the stench of our rot. You will do this so that all may bear witness to our power, and remember why we are feared above all others. And in so doing, you will serve our purpose.

"Do you understand, Kvothe?"

I shook in his grip, and said nothing.

"Do you understand?" he said again.

A wave of compulsion. _Please him._ "Yes," I whispered. The pleasure came again, sweet and hateful.

"Then all is well between us," he said, and withdrew his hand.

I did not wait to see if, or how, he left me. I stumbled back to Denna's side. I straightened her limbs and brushed the dirt off of her skirts. I ran my uninjured fingers through the dark tangles of her hair. I clutched her to me, and willed her to wake.

I did not look at Cinder's sword. I did not caress it, or swing it, or weigh it in my fist. I did not need to do these things to know its name was Folly.


	6. Sympathy

**.**

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER SIX<strong>

_Sympathy_

* * *

><p>Kvothe gestured for Chronicler to put down his pen. "That's enough for the moment," he said quietly.<p>

The inn fell silent. That silence had an edge to it now, or perhaps that was just how it seemed to Bast. He stared at the innkeeper, wild-eyed. Kvothe stared back, his expression closed and wary.

Chronicler placed his pen on the bar and stretched his hand. He did not notice the tension between the two men. His lips were pinched tightly together, as if he were trying to hide a smile.

Kvothe glanced over at him and stiffened, just slightly. "This amuses you?" he said.

"Oh, it's not that," Chronicler said. "It's a fantastic story. Very dark and poignant." He paused. "But you have to admit, it's a little far-fetched."

The innkeeper's eyes narrowed. "Oh?"

Chronicler's cheeks reddened, but he pressed on. "Look," he said, "just yesterday, you let three run-of-the-mill mercenary types wallop the shit out of you, and today you're trying to convince me you're one of the Chand-"

"It's a filthy fucking _lie_!" Bast leapt to his feet. His chair clattered to the floor.

Chronicler gaped at him. Kvothe did not. He had been watching Bast from the corner of his eye, had been watching his expression flash between disbelief and anger and betrayal. "Bast-"

"Don't," Bast cried. "Just ... don't." He stumbled towards the door. He couldn't stop shaking. He clutched his chest. There was a pain there, one he didn't have words for. It felt like everything inside him was shattering.

His eyes turned a bright, violent blue. "Bast, your glamour-" Kvothe warned.

"Damn my glamour!" Bast shouted.

A window shattered. The shards became a thousand black daggers, all sharp and wicked, all aimed at Kvothe. Chronicler cried out and threw himself to the floor.

Kvothe did not. He gaze cut through the blades. It cut through Bast. The daggers touched his face, and suddenly they were nothing but black smoke. Then they were gone entirely, and the window was whole again.

"Bast -" Kvothe choked.

Bast shook his head violently. "No," he said. "I'm done. I won't listen to any more of this." He backed up against the door. His eyes were the palest blue now, so bright they were almost white.

"You can't leave," Chronicler said. It came out as a nervous whine. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I need to finish this story today. The Earl -"

"You can keep your damn appointment," Bast snapped. "I told you, I'm done listening. Finish the story without me."

"But ... where are you going?"

Bast bared his teeth at the balding man. His nails dug gouges into the doorframe. "I am going to fucking _kill _something," he hissed.

He strode out the door and slammed it behind him. The force of it knocked a coat rack from the wall, shook plaster loose from the ceiling.

Chronicler turned to the innkeeper. "Is he serious?"

Kvothe stared after his apprentice for a long time, saying nothing. Finally, he shrugged. "Probably." He shifted a few bottles around on the counter and sighed. "Where were we?"

* * *

><p>Bast slipped through the front door of the Waystone Inn late in the evening, long after the moon had risen. He was surprised to find the door unlocked. But of course it was unlocked. His Reshi had left it that way on purpose. It was his way of telling Bast that he wasn't angry, that he wanted him to come home.<p>

Bast stepped into the taproom and glanced around, his expression intent. It was almost as if he expected the inn to have changed somehow in his absence, to have become something other than what it had always been. But no, it was still itself. That meant that everything was still in its place, and everything was still a-kilter. Still wrong, still broken. He snorted, as if to clear his nostrils of the smell of wood ash and polish. The air outside was fresh and chill, but the air in the inn was warm and stale, like flat beer. It turned his stomach.

He turned his back on the taproom and mounted the stairs in a sullen silence. He felt impossibly heavy, but it didn't stop him from stepping lightly. He knew where to place every foot to keep the floor from creaking.

He paused at the top of the stairs. He had intended to go straight to bed. He really had. But Kvothe's door was wide open, and the warm light from his fire was casting dancing shadows along the corridor wall. That doorway invited. It pleaded. Bast took a cautious step forward, then another.

His Reshi stood in the center of the room, before the fireplace, waiting for him. He did not turn to face him. But he knew that he was there. "Speak your mind, Bast," he said quietly. "I am so weary of silence."

Bast said nothing at first. He just breathed in and out, slowly and deeply. Purposefully. He had a question for his master. It was an important question. It had to be asked. Still, he was not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

He asked anyway.

"Did you ride with Iax, when he marched on the Twyleth Mael? When he cast my father from his throne?" He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Did you help him do it?"

A long silence. "I was there," Kvothe whispered finally. "I did not help Iax usurp your father. But I was there." He did not turn around, did not meet his apprentice's eyes.

Bast wrapped his arms around himself. He had not been there when it happened, or he would have known. He had always preferred the changing light of the mortal world to the eternal twilit shadows of his father's court. And he was the third of five siblings, no one had expected more of him. No, he had not been there when Iax and his armies claimed his father's throne. But he had seen the aftermath of the battle, if it could be called that. The shattered towers, the burning meadows. The scorching sun, high as noon, driving back the shadows.

He had been told the palace was changed now, and more beautiful than ever. There were fifty turrets, they said, all black stone and smooth as glass. It was a wonder and a terror to behold. But it was nothing like his home.

That was the worst of it. The Shaper King had brought war to the mortals, but he had brought change to the Fae. He had not just changed the land and sky and stone. He had changed the folk. When Bast's father and sisters had defied him, he had transformed them into pawning, dumb beasts, no better than _anhaut-fehn_.

Bast had heard his sister Kestian was Iax's mistress now. He closed his eyes and remembered her as she had been before, beautiful and ancient and proud, with eyes and hair the color of fire. It didn't do to remember her any other way.

"Bast, I am sorry," Kvothe said. His voice was bitter. "I am truly sorry, for all the good that it does either of us." He hesitated. "You should hear what I told Chronicler today. You should know that I am no longer one of the Seven. Haliax has no power over me now."

Bast nodded slowly. "I know that."

The red-haired man looked surprised. "Do you?" He turned to face his pupil for the first time that evening and stilled, his eyes wide. "God's body, Bast! What have you been _doing_?"

Bast shied away, the muscles in his oddly hinged legs rippling as he fell into a self-conscious half-crouch. His deep blue eyes were wide and cautious. He had not restored his glamour.

He was nude, save for the belt knife he wore slung across his shoulders. He did not want to wear clothes right now. They were a human thing, like modesty and guilt, like love and death. He was so tired of all of these things. So tired of trying. He wanted life to be as it had been before. Before the world broke, before he met this man. He wanted his life to be simple again, wanted to play his pipes and dance and hunt and fuck.

But he couldn't, of course. Not anymore, not now that everything had changed. He hunted, and he fucked, and he played his pipes. But it didn't stop him from loving his Reshi, or hating him either. It didn't stop him from worrying - about his master, about the Chandrian, even about the oncoming winter. Today, those worries had driven him from a fine hunt in the woods. It had been freedom, that hunt, like wind through the trees - fast and focused, strike and kill, blood in his mouth. But still those worries had tugged at him. They had driven him back here, to his Reshi's door. That, too, worried him. The humanness of it.

It was all too much. He shrugged helplessly.

The innkeeper's expression softened. He walked over to his washbasin and lifted a towel off of the dresser. He placed the basin on the floor and sat down beside it. He soaked the rag in the clean water, then wrung it out.

"Come here," he said. Bast gave him a confused look.

"You're dripping blood on my floor," Kvothe explained.

Bast blinked and held out his arms. His Reshi was right, they were crusted with blood, all the way up to his elbows. He had known that already. But he had not realized the blood was still dripping like that, bright and wet, through his fingers. Of course that would bother his Reshi. He liked things clean.

Bast walked forward and sat.

Kvothe ran the cloth along Bast's arm. It was warm, which was odd. Bast wondered if Kvothe had done something, with sympathy perhaps, to make it so. That would be a good sign, he thought. He was not sure anymore. His master dipped the cloth in the basin again. The blood clouded the water, red tendrils reaching outwards.

"The soldiers?" Kvothe asked. His tone was carefully neutral.

Bast shook his head regretfully. "Just a deer. I didn't see anyone else."

Kvothe frowned. "Really? I'm surprised. I wouldn't have expected that band of thieves to travel very quickly."

Bast stiffened, just slightly. His Reshi didn't notice, or pretended not to. His hand paused above his pupil's arm for only a moment, then continued.

They sat in silence as Kvothe cleaned Bast's arms, then his chest. Bast closed his eyes. He took comfort in this small, shared moment. It gave him hope that all would be well between them again. "It was a good kill, Reshi," he said hesitantly. "I'll bring the rest back here tomorrow and carve it for you. It will make a good stew."

It was a peace offering, of sorts. The red-haired man nodded. "That would be good, Bast, thank you."

More silence now. Bast was becoming more comfortable with it. "Reshi -"

"Mmm?"

"I know you are not ... one of them. I just can't figure out how."

"I would be shocked if you had." Kvothe paused and considered his student. "Perhaps we should make it a lesson."

Bast sat straight up. "Yes, please," he said.

Kvothe's lips twitched into the shadow of a smile. "Don't think this will get you out of reading _Celum Tincture_ tomorrow," he said sternly. "You ought to have finished it a month ago."

Bast gave his master an innocent, slightly puzzled look. Kvothe snorted. "Very well, let me think a moment." He scrubbed a few drops of blood off of the floor, his expression distant.

"How does Haliax control the Seven?" he said after a moment.

"He knows their names."

Kvothe nodded. "Yes. So let's cut straight to the heart of it. How might I go about making sure he can't use my name against me?"

For a moment, Bast simply stared at the innkeeper in complete bewilderment. Then his blood turned cold. No. He _wouldn't_. Surely not. Nobody could be that stupid, not even ... He clenched his fists to keep them from shaking.

"Don't tell me you're _trying _to change your name," he hissed, suddenly furious. "Don't tell me that the whole reason we're hiding in this backwater village in the middle of _nowhere_ is so that you can turn yourself into some ... some small-minded village ninny, some wood-splitting, _pie-making_ ... "

Kvothe raised his hands beseechingly, palms out. "Gods above, man, calm yourself!" he said. "Of course I'm not! What earthly good could that do? The second Haliax found me, he would take one look at me and pluck my name right out of my head again."

He shook his head. "No, Bast, the only way to keep him out for good is to put my name somewhere no one else can get to it. Not even me."

Bast relaxed a fraction. "So you're not trying to change your name?"

"No. Gods no. Better to keep it locked away."

Bast smiled widely in relief. "Alright then, I'll bite. How did you lock up your name?"

Kvothe's answering smile was almost shy, like that of a boy showing his father a toy whistle he'd carved. His eyes darted to the thrice-locked chest.

"Your chest!" Bast exclaimed. His eyes widened. Then they narrowed. He shook his head. "No," he said slowly, "That's not possible. I could probably make a box that could hold a true name. If I had many years, and the proper sort of box. The perfect box. A box just like yours, in fact. But _you _couldn't. Surely not. You know less of grammarie than I know of alchemy."

Kvothe shook his head. "Not grammarie. Not alchemy, for that matter."

"Naming?" Bast said.

Kvothe shook his head again.

"Artificery, then. It can't be sympathy. You don't use it anymore."

Kvothe looked surprised. "Don't I?" he said.

"_Don't _you?" Bast said incredulously. He paused. He looked deeply uncomfortable. "I thought your Alar had failed you. I was certain of it."

"There's nothing wrong with my Alar," Kvothe said indignantly. "Not at the moment, anyway." He scowled. "It isn't as easy as it sounds, you know, to walk around with your mind split in two all the time. I'd like to see you do it for four months straight and then try to make a double binding on top of it. Besides, I'm two years out of practice. I don't know why you keep expecting me to do the impossible."

Bast looked abashed. "Reshi, I'm sorry. I-"

Kvothe sighed. "Don't worry about it. I shouldn't have said any of that." He rubbed his eyes. "Forgive me, Bast. It's been a long day." He stared down at his hands. The haunted expression had returned, the one he wore so often these days. He flexed his left hand absently, grimacing in pain.

"Reshi?" Bast said. The innkeeper continued to stare at his hand, unheeding. "Kvothe?"

Kvothe looked up sharply. "What?"

"I still don't understand. Why are you splitting your mind in two?"

For a moment, the red-haired man simply looked confused. Then he waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, that. It's an old trick Ben taught me. I mentioned it to you once. You split your mind in two, then use one half to hide something from the other half."

"Something like a name?" Bast said.

"Something like a key," Kvothe said. He glanced at the chest, his expression rueful. "It doesn't stop me from trying, mind you."

There was a pause. "Did you call me Kvothe, just now?" he said. He cocked his head to the side. The corners of his lips turned up into a mischievous half-smile, the smile of a man who knows something he should not. "Am I no longer your _reshiuen _then?"

Bast stilled. He had never used this term with his master. He had never dared.

"Where did you learn that word?" he said warily.

Kvothe snorted. "Felurian taught it to me. I may have a terrible ear for your language, Bast, but I have an excellent memory. She taught me all such words. Father, brother, cousin. Son. That is what you mean when you call me that, isn't it?"

Bast blushed deeply. "I did not mean for you to understand me," he stammered. "I did not think you would approve."

"I don't," he said sharply. Bast recoiled, and Kvothe froze. After a moment, he held up a conciliatory hand. "I'm sorry, Bast. I don't mean to be harsh with you."

He lowered the bloody rag to the floor and stared at his hands. "I don't blame you for what you did," he said finally. "You were acting according to your nature, in the way of the Fae. You did not know better then." He paused. "But you do now, I think." This last was more question than statement, hopeful but uncertain.

Bast nodded vigorously. "I do," he said. He paused, then smiled crookedly. "I am sorry, too, you know. For all the good it will do either of us."

The red-haired man nodded and smiled himself, but his smile was brittle, distant. His fingers tightened on the rag. He shook his head. Bast sensed that he had a question now, too, one that he was afraid to ask.

"Did she know? My mother?"

Bast shook his head slowly. "No. Even lying in my arms, she spoke of her bard. She loved him very deeply. I did not want her to feel ... shame ... for lying also with me." He paused, uncertain how much he should say. "I know many songs. Songs that make your kind desire such things, and songs that make them forget."

Kvothe raised his eyebrows, and the dark-haired man ducked his head. "Songs I don't use anymore," he emphasized. "Let Felurian have her slavering paramours. I prefer the chase."

Kvothe gave Bast a small smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. It rarely did, these days. He sighed. He placed the rag in the basin and stood.

He stared out the window a long time. "I wish -" he started, then shook his head fiercely. "Damn it, what is the point?"

A long pause. "It is good, Bast," he said finally, "to have a family again."

Bast stood and stepped towards the red-haired man. Slowly, painstakingly, he reached out and placed a hand on Kvothe's shoulder. The innkeeper sighed and touched the other man's fingers lightly with his own.

Encouraged, Bast wrapped his arms entirely around his Reshi's chest and rested his chin on his shoulder. Kvothe stiffened, but Bast did not pull away. He knew already how such small gestures derailed his Reshi, this legend among men, who had killed gods and kings but still shied from loud noises and a loving touch. They stood like that for a long time, staring out at the burning world.

"I am changing," Kvothe said. For the first time, he sounded afraid.

"I know."

The red-haired man shuddered. "I can't afford to. If my Alar fails me ... "

"It will not," Bast said firmly. "I will not let that happen."

"Oh, Bast," he sighed. "I don't deserve your faith in me." Another silence. Then -"What if it is already too late?"

Bast drew back, circling to face Kvothe. "It is never too late," he said angrily. "A thing, unmade, can be made again. What was can be as it has been."

"Sometimes, yes, if the circumstances are right. But what is there here to bring me back?" Reshi's gesture took in the room, the inn, the town. He walked across the room to stare again into the fire. "I know you hoped the story would do it, Bast. But the story is finished now, and all I feel is ... tired." He looked up, and there were tears in his eyes. "I am so tired, Bast. I want to be myself again. I have to. But I don't know if I have the energy. Even if I did, I wouldn't know how."

There was a faint sound in the hallway, barely more than a scuffle. Both men leapt backwards. Bast reached for one of his long knives, then relaxed. It was only Chronicler.

Kvothe shook his head in disbelief. "You must really have a death wish," he said, "sneaking up on us like this."

Chronicler stumbled back, his face flaming red with embarrassment. He covered his eyes. "I am sorry, so sorry. I didn't mean to sneak. And I wasn't eavesdropping, I swear it. I just ..." he trailed off, then straightened, as if suddenly remembering his bearings. "It's just, you've a guest downstairs. I was going to send her away, the inn being closed and all. But, well ..." He made a small helpless gesture with his hands and coughed awkwardly, "well, I'll let you see for yourself. Anyway, I told her I'd fetch you. So here I am."

Bast and Kvothe glanced at one another, eyebrows raised. The red-haired man rubbed his face and sighed deeply.

He shook himself, straightened, and smiled. It was the placid smile of a innkeeper in a small village that had fallen on hard times. It was the smile of a man pleased, despite the hour, to have the chance to make some coin, and see to some company, before the heavy snows started and the roads closed for winter. It was a small gesture, from a relatively small man, with soft copper hair and grey-green eyes.

"Let's not keep the lady waiting, Bast," he said softly. He strode out of the room, across the hall, and down the stairs.

She stood in shadow with her back to the stairs, studying the sword mounted on the wall. Her hair was long and dark, braided in a complex knot that disappeared into the cowl of a travel-worn blue cloak. The knot in her hair had loosened in the wind, so that dark strands now fell across her forehead and into her wide, dark eyes. She turned as Kvothe descended the stairs, and smiled. Her smile was like sunlight on deep water, like the first breath of music in a long-silent room. She set a pale leather harp case atop a table and stepped into the firelight.

" I'd like to stay through the winter," she said, and her words were like wind and memory and song. "I hope you still have the space."

* * *

><p><em>The end.<em>


	7. Endnotes

Thank you for reading my story! You are awesome.

As promised, here are notes and references for the fan theories in the story (I'm a scientist by training. We are big on citation. That said, you will have to forgive me for not citing page numbers for everything. This is a hobby, after all.). Really sorry about the crappy link formatting. It's the best I can do with this website's restrictions (It doesn't even let you copy/paste the links? What the hell.). Put a single period in the links where it says (dotdot) to make them work.

(Spoilers all, including one specially marked spoiler for _The Slow Regard of Silent Things_)

* * *

><p><strong>Made up with little or no evidence:<strong>

1. _Bast is Kvothe's father._ Oh, maybe. I would put good odds on the two being related. Bast's love for Kvothe is apparent, but I doubt that they are lovers because both are renowned womanizers. Of course, the most popular theory is that Bast is Kvothe's son by Felurian, the Lady of Twilight. I don't buy this - Bast is 150 years old and has cloven hooves, plus we know his father is Remmen (We could argue all day about how time works in the Fae and about the fact that we also know Kvothe's father is Arliden, but I don't see the point of going in circles ...) Pat opened the door to questions of Kvothe's parentage on purpose when Arliden joked that Laurian had "bed down with some wandering God" (NotW Ch 12). We also know that Bast can bear human children based on a side comment made by Kvothe in WMF Ch 85 (Kvothe accuses Bast of being a boy's father. Bast is offended that Kvothe would think that because the child is, god forbid, blond).

If you are mortified that I could even entertain the possibility that Bast seduced Kvothe's mother with music, don't read _The Lightning Tree_.

I also have a pet theory that Kvothe is the son of an angel, but I'll save that for another day.

2. _Bast's father (Remmen, presumed King of Twilight?) is displaced by Iax upon his return_. I made this up completely.

3. _Elodin is related to Kvothe_. Three things might suggest this (in a vague, unlikely sort of way): (1) His eyes are alternatively described as "green" or "dark," which could suggest that they change color like Kvothe's - a trait we know he inherited from his mother, a Lackless, and one which ties him to the Fae and to Iax/Jax "of the dark and changing eye." (2) We can guess that Elodin comes from a respectable family, since he became the youngest student ever accepted at the University at 14, and the beginning of his formal education must pre-date that. (3) If the power to Name is hereditary, Elodin and Kvothe could both have inherited it through the Lackless line.

4. _Illien was an angel/Singer_. This is unlikely, but not impossible. Illien is said to be one of the human Amyr. But, as Felurian states, there never were any human Amyr. We know there is some connection between the (true) Amyr and the singers, who I assume are angels (see #2 under "Almost certainly true" below). Their relationship remains unclear, though we know both are enemies of the Chandrian. Anyway, I only included this bit in the story because I enjoy the bitter irony of Kvothe failing his idol.

If you're currently thinking, "Uh ... What are the singers and why does this random fan fiction author think that they are angels?" you might enjoy the following links:

kingkiller(dotdot)wikia(dotdot)com/wiki/Angel

kingkiller(dotdot)wikia(dotdot)com/wiki/The_Singers

5. _Haliax can drop his shadows on a whim._ This is utter nonsense. Do you have any idea how annoying it is to write a monologue for a character that can't make any facial expressions and speaks entirely in italics?

6. _The Chandrian's signs are given to them by the Amyr or the Singers_. In Skarpi's tale, Haliax is cursed by Selitos, who is the only Amyr we know by name (indeed, he may be the only Amyr).

7. _The Chandrian are screwing with the line of succession in Vintas, which somehow explains Kvothe's assassination of the King_. Why on earth is Cinder waylaying the Maer's tax collectors? Is he guarding the Lackless door? Searching for it? Is he garnering power for himself or his allies (maybe the Jakis family)?

* * *

><p><strong>Likely to be true:<strong>

1. _The thrice-locked chest holds Kvothe's name. He locked himself out of it by splitting his mind in two, which is why his Alar is weak._ Jo Walton wrote up a nice review of all the popular theories related to Kote:

tor(dotdot)com/blogs/2011/08/rothfuss-reread-speculative-summary-part-3-fire-thunder-broken-tree-speculations-on-kvothe

2. _Bredon is Master Ash, or Cinder is Master Ash, or both_.

tor(dotdot)com/blogs/2012/01/rothfuss-reread-speculative-summary-part-8-qi-have-a-patronq-speculations-on-master-ash

3. _Haliax is Iax, or is somehow tied to him, and aims to release him from his prison_. Iax is imprisoned behind the "doors of stone." This sounds metaphorical but is actually likely to be the Lackless door, which appears to lie on the ancient lands where the Blac of Drossen Tor was fought (see #3 below under "Almost certainly true").

reddit(dotdot)com/r/KingkillerChronicle/comments/29s2nx/lackless_rhymes_spoilers_all/

4._ Folly is Cinder's sword._ Neither sword reflects light well. One is associated with endings, the other with the dead of winter.

goodreads(dotdot)com/topic/show/1089109-folly-is-cinder-s-sword

5. _Auri is Princess Ariel._ Who is that? Pat only knows. Roderic's daughter, presumably. I've read several great theories on this, but I can't find one now that hits all the major points, so I'll rehash here. Briefly, her primness and her refusal to wear hand-me-downs suggest a wealthy upbringing. Elodin bows unusually formally to her when they meet on the rooftops. Kvothe names her Auri, which is similar to Ariel (pronounced Au-riel in the audio books). Kvothe's choice of names suggests to Elodin that he has some talent for naming, so it must strike close to home. And if ever there were a character that might need saving from "sleeping barrow kings," it's the girl who lives in the underground palace. _The Slow Regard of Silent Things_ suggests SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS she suffered sexual abuse as a child. Since Cinder is the only sadist in the series (a possible exception being Denna's patron) and also seems to be tied up in Vintic politics (or why would he be waylaying tax collectors?), I wonder if he is her abuser (so this theory found its way into the story as well). END SPOILERS END SPOILERS END SPOILERS END SPOILERS.

As a matter of curiosity, here is a lovely list of the Vintic peerage. Note that Roderic may have a missing heir (Ariel?):

reddit(dotdot)com/r/KingkillerChronicle/comments/1yt2ql/the_throne_of_vintas_spoilersspeculation_all/

6. _Kvothe is a Chandrian, and his sign is silence._

reddit(dotdot)com/r/KingkillerChronicle/comments/1a6rw4/my_latest_theory_kvothe_is_a_chandrian/

7. _The Eolian is going to burn down_. NotW Ch 54, in which the Eolian is first introduced, is titled "A Place to Burn." This is metaphorical, but it reeks of foreshadowing to me, as does Stanchion's comment to Kvothe in WMF Ch 5, "Is this the sort of surprise that's going to cause a riot or make folk set my place on fire?"

8. _Kvothe kills the king (or someone) outside of the Eolian_. NotW, Ch 3 (spoken by the visitor who recognizes Kvothe): "'I saw the place in Imre where you killed him. By the fountain. The cobblestones are all shathered.' He frowned and concentrated on the word. 'Shattered. They say no one can mend them.'" Compare this to NotW Ch 54: "The Eolian lay at the heart of Imre, its front doors facing out onto the city's central cobblestone courtyard. There were benches, a few flowering trees, and a marble fountain misting water over a statue of a satyr chasing a group of half-clothed nymphs whose attempt at flight seemed token at best."

9. _Kvothe's left hand is damaged, which is why he can't play music. _See the section "Hands" in

tor(dotdot)com/blogs/2012/01/rothfuss-reread-speculative-summary-part-6-qexpect-disaster-every-seven-yearsq-speculations-on-kote

10. _Skarpi is an angel, or is at least aligned with them. _I can't find a good source for this theory either. Briefly, Skarpi says Kvothe's name the second time they meet in Tarbean (probably his true name, not his calling name), even though Kvothe never told it to him. This, plus his story about Lanre, brings Kvothe back to himself and sets him on the road to the University (fueled by fantasies of revenge). When Skarpi is arrested, he tells the priests that he has friends in the church and makes personal comments about the angels like "Erlus, Tehlu hates you even more than the rest of the world does." (NotW Ch 28) Note that, when Chronicler says he has been traveling with Skarpi, Kvothe also responds, "Taken you under his wing, has he?" (NotW, Ch 6)

11. _Cinder has the ability to alter his appearance_. I base this solely on the Cthaeh's comment to Kvothe about the ability of the Chandrian to hide their signs.

12. _Caesura will not rust in the presence of the Chandrian. _Well, it is a shaped blade.

13. _Somebody (the Singers? the Amyr? the Chandrian?) invented the Tehlin church_. I love this theory.

goodreads(dotdot)com/topic/show/1040823-the-tehlin-religion-is-fake

14. _The king that Kvothe kills is Roderic of Vintas._ The comment by thistepong in this post is the best treatment I've read on the subject:

reddit(dotdot)com/r/KingkillerChronicle/comments/1fduv4/speculation_on_the_penitent_king_spoilers_all/

* * *

><p><strong>Almost certainly true:<strong>

1. _Netalia Lackless is Kvothe's mother_. Nothing in the series is more certain than this. This is either true or it's the best red herring I ever heard.

reddit(dotdot)com/r/KingkillerChronicle/comments/ydow9/kvothes_mom_the_missing_lackless_sister/

2. The_ angels (singers?) are important players, even though Kvothe is ignoring them_. Recall that there were three parties in Skarpi's story: The Chandrian, the Amyr, and the unnamed third contingent led by Tehlu, who became ephemeral creatures of white fire.

This contingent (obviously "angels," since they are led by Tehlu and transformed by Aleph) appears to be wielding Kvothe as a weapon against the Chandrian (which raises the question, why do they think he will succeed where they have failed?): Skarpi, who speaks of Tehlu as if they know one another, attempts to awaken Kvothe in Tarbean and send him after the Chandrian; to the Justice, he says, "It's not as if I expect you to bound off looking for Halax and the Seven yourself. 'Small deeds for small men,' I always say." (NotW Ch 28) (Note his use of "the Seven" rather than "the Chandrian." This is their preferred name, and suggests a deeper knowledge of them than other storytellers might have.) Similarly, Nina tells Kvothe that the angels brought images of the Chandrian vase to her in a dream so that she could draw it for him. As noted in Chapter 4 (this story), Cinder flees after a column of white fire strikes the bandit camp in Vintas, which only occurs after Marten prays to Andan and Ordal.

Andan and Ordal's names rest on the Amyr's shoulders (this is presumably Selitos) in Nina's drawing ("almost as if she were hoping the names would weigh him down, or trap him"), so we can guess that the angels provide a check on the Amyr (WFM Ch 35). Based on Skarpi's comments, they don't much seem to like the Tehlin church.

I call these creatures Singers in the story because the angels are said to sing "songs of power," and the Singers are known enemies of the Chandrian. Haliax says to Cinder, "Who keeps you safe from the Amyr? The singers?" (NotW Ch 16) Singers could be men like Kvothe's father, or they could be creatures like the angels. They could also be one and the same - note that, when Kvothe's sleeping mind is awoken and he sings Felurian's name ("four clear lines of song"), he says "my power rode like a white star on my brow" (WMF Ch 97). When Skarpi describes the angels, he says "the fire settled on their foreheads like silver stars and they became at once righteous and wise and terrible to behold." (NotW Ch 28)

3. _Kvothe will open the Lackless door, releasing Iax and restarting the Creation War._ That Kvothe will open the door is made clear by the rhyme Kvothe hears - "Seven things stand before the entrance to the Lackless door ... One a son who brings the blood." That the door lies on the battlefield of Drossen Tor, and likely contains Iax's prison, is suggested by the relationship between this rhyme in WMF and an earlier rhyme in NotW ("Seven things has Lady Lackless, Keeps them underneath her black dress ..."), particularly the way that "black dress" was carefully chosen to bring to mind "Drossen Tor." The linguistic similarity is intentionally conserved across different translations of the book.

See comment #290: asoiaf(dotdot)westeros(dotdot)org/index(dotdot)php/topic/75050-the-wise-mans-fear-ix-spoilers-speculation/page-15


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